The Province of Men
by bleeping-bleep
Summary: Éohild is no stranger to taking up arms with men, but she did not expect to cast her lot with a wizard, lords, princes, and four of the bravest creatures of Middle-Earth. Though daunted by the glory of her companions, their desperate quest, and the threat in the East, she seeks to find her voice amidst the clamors of war and ruin. 10th walker Legomance.
1. Prologue

We do not own Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, or any work of J.R.R. Tolkien's. Nor do we own the film trilogy distributed by New Line Cinema. This is fanfiction, created solely for purposes of enjoyment. We're not making money off this story. (We doubt anyone would pay for it, anyway. We would not.) The characters Éohild, Céolwin, Leófe, Bertana, Eafa, and other characters who do not appear in Tolkien's work are created by us, but based on the world of Tolkien.

Welcome, one and all, to another obligatory 10th Walker Legomance!

But really, thanks for clicking the story and giving it a chance. It means a lot to Senna, who out of the two of us owning this account is the writer for this one. (The other one is Elis, who stays out of it.) This story and concept was started by Senna long ago, in our high school years. (As if. It's only been a few years.)

**WARNING: **As a courtesy to those accustomed to the archive, like Elis (Senna does not read for fear of accusations), yes, we'll get ahead of you and say this is probably a Mary-Sue. Obviously. It's a self-insert 10th walker Legomance.

Yes, we know Tolkien really meant to have 9 goodies against Sauron's 9 baddies.

Yes, we still want to publish it into the archive anyway.

And yes, she is an imaginary sister to Éomer and lovely Éowyn, so AU?

She will become friends with those of the Company, and she will be closer in friendship with some members than others, because that's how big groups of people work. The circumstances of her induction into the Fellowship may or may not be acceptable to you, and we accept that. It's the best we could come up with given her background. Doesn't mean you can't complain about it, of course.

However, we like to think that Éohild is in no way perfect, and is possibly even relatable. At the start of every chapter, we will explain her insecurities in case it is difficult for you to read her emotions from her actions and thoughts. (Not to be condescending. Elis is not the best at it either, so we decided to add some thoughts as well as actions, but we will still explain for those too shy to ask. Try not to be, though. We'll answer questions happily unless meant to ridicule instead of help.)

We would ask you to read on and get to know her yourself to either prove us wrong or right. Hopefully, she isn't _that_ annoying, either. At least not when she's grown up. And don't worry, Witch King slaying belongs to Éowyn and Merry, always and forever, no matter what anyone says. Tell us what you think!

This prologue reveals a bit of Éohild's younger years. **The Province of Men** follows mostly the movies, by the way, with some events taken from the book. (Mostly on how Boromir came to Rivendell.) For those impatient for the movie to start, we will tell you now that it starts at Chapter 3. Apologies for some typos that might occur, just tell us if you see any and we'll change them immediately.

One last thing! Théoden looks as he does in the film - young - and his age was adjusted to fit this. That way he is about 31 years old during the attack at Isen, 4 years older than Éomer.

Enjoy!

* * *

**The Province of Men**

**Prologue**

The girl bolted round the corner, lunging past the yelping maidens and ignoring the oncoming reprimands from the older women of the hall. Plates clanged and curses rang out, but she stopped only when she reached the main hall, eyes briefly darting to the dais where the King's throne stood gloriously. When no Uncle of hers sat upon it, she gave a painful yelp and bounded for the great doors. The guards smiled almost expectantly and pulled forward, allowing the pale morning light to flood the hall in a silvery-blue glow.

"No!" cried the girl, arms outstretched and doing nothing to correct the sweaty, sleep-mussed hair all over her face, and then dropped her hands on her knees in dismay, panting for breath. Led by Théoden King, the thunderous galloping of horses slipped from the gates of Edoras and turned westward until they were but a wave of brown, black and white sweeping across the green plains of the Riddermark.

"Éohild," said a young man not older than twenty summers. He was tall and golden-haired, traits for which their people were well-known, though unlike most men of the Eorlingas was less broadly built than lithe. Prince Théodred of the Mark did not conceal the mirth in his tone. "Had you not slept past midnight, you might have seen Éomer go."

Éohild was the youngest daughter of Eomund, husband to the king's beloved sister. She had only seen five winters when Orcs slew her father and grief, her mother, and so kept little memory of them, depending instead on the tales recounted by Éomer and Éowyn, her elder brother and sister. Their uncle Théoden King raised them as his own son and daughters, so it was he she loved like a father, and Théodred a brother Éomer could depend on whenever she and Éowyn were too busy tearing at each other's hair.

Ten years old and hardly afraid of her cousin, young and famed Rider though he was, Éohild huffed and crossed her arms. "It is unfair."

Beside her, an older female nodded sullenly in agreement. Prepubescent, lanky, and nearly awkward, Éowyn was her sister, two years ahead of her and four years behind their brother. This morning was his very first ride out with their uncle, and she had hoped against hope that Théoden would change his mind and allow her to join them—to no avail. When Éohild would not wake at her prodding, she had gone out of Meduseld on her own. "It is."

"I do not think you speak of the same injustice," Théodred laughed. "But they are gone, and there is little to be done about father's decision."

"But _cousin_," Éowyn whirled at him, gray eyes steeling. "One word from you and Uncle would change his mind. He loves you dearly."

"And he is dear to me, in turn. But if only to keep you both safe, I would not speak with him again."

Éohild sighed. "Why should we learn to fight if we never partake in battle, cousin?"

"For a time I pray will never arrive," was his answer. And then, patting her rumpled hair, he ushered the sisters inside their home. "Come, now. Éohild, I believe breakfast is in order."

"Oh!" Éohild jumped, latching onto the prince's hand. "I am hungry."

"Éohild!" Éowyn exclaimed, rushing in after them. "You are too easily persuaded."

"But I am _hungry_," she answered, as though it was reason enough.

Éowyn shook her head and took to their cousin's side. "You might deter Éohild, but I know there is no reason for trapping me here!" she said to him in a furious whisper.

Théodred continued to steer Éohild to the dining hall, smiling when she glanced at him. He patiently replied to Éowyn, "Neither does a reason exist that tells me why you should join an éored. I guide and train you with the sword; Éohild knives for her little arms—"

"My arms are not so little!"

He pet her head but did not turn his gaze from Éowyn. "Is that not enough? It has become the standard that a Rider should possess the ability to slay an Orc. Could you? This is not simply a means for gaining honor, cousin."

In the hardened gaze reflected in his royal blue eyes, Éowyn could almost see Théodred's father in their younger days, whenever she and Éohild used to shove each other in the mud. Unable to match it, she turned away. Still she muttered, "…yes."

The heated mood dissipated when Théodred laughed and said in a singsong voice, "We shall see, Éowyn." And then they arrived at the dining hall, where the prince asked the serving women to prepare their breakfast.

* * *

They did not see; at least, not until two years passed. The younger of the King's sister-daughters had jumped from the top of Éowyn's chest to above her, so that she reached only Éohild's eyebrows. She took her sister's place not as appearing nearly awkward but completely, though she was not clumsy as one might expect. Meanwhile, Éowyn at fourteen was already in bloom, no longer gangly but slender and beautiful, and all the girls her age and older sighed dreamily at the thought of Éomer, who had grown into their father's lean but broad-shouldered build. Yet Théodred remained the most handsome lad in the Riddermark, and his skill earned him the station of Second Marshal of the Mark.

Théodred was away at the Hornburg, as was often of late. After he took the position he passed the guidance of his beloved cousins to Gamling, a lieutenant of his father's, for Éomer believed that his sisters were capable enough of defending themselves and should not be so encouraged to learn the art of war any longer.

By this time, the yearning to join the Riders was a desire Éohild now shared with her older sister. Within Éowyn, it intensified till it ached and burned, though she had learned to hide her bitterness with a collected façade for the sake of being a proper Lady to show respect for her Uncle. To her chagrin, Éohild seemed to have taken her constantly-slighted demeanor as well, knowing of but refusing to apply the secret to feigning an air of responsibility leaning towards precociousness at their age, which the maidens preferred to Éohild's surly attitude.

The sisters stood together on the highest hill in Edoras, atop the stairs before the doors of Meduseld. It had become a ritual: meeting there with Éomer and granting him good-luck kisses before allowing him to ride off without them. Below, a soft breeze weaved through the thatched roofs of their people. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sunlight with a hand, Éohild watched the dust cloud of the King's Riders disappear past the horizon, where dark clouds gathered together.

"This is unforgivable," she declared.

"It is," agreed Éowyn, looking quite displeased but without her sister's decidedly sour expression.

Éohild frowned at her sister's apparent lack of ardor. "Your tone _betrays_ your indignation."

"There is little use for stomping one's feet," Éowyn explained, taking her sister's hand. "Men believe what their eyes see…only by this truth can we prove our worth."

Éohild's eyes widened. She shared the hazel of Éomer's, as it was their father's before them. "Do you mean…?"

For the past month, Éohild had hounded Éowyn with an idea that came to her one morning, when she was trapped in the kitchen with Wynne, the head cook, learning more recipes the woman swore to the King would benefit her future husband and family. To her misfortune, her uncle had agreed that his sister-daughters should spend a little more time learning kitchen duties so that managing the details of their own household someday would not be so difficult. It was not that Éohild disliked cooking, or chores, or Wynne's fondness of lecturing; she simply had not the patience for waiting.

She knew it was a fool's scheme, but it hounded her in thought and dream until her heart accepted it as a sound idea, good enough for a try.

In any case, Éowyn refused and swore her plan would be the end of them, and if not then their uncle would surely disown them – but if there was anything Éowyn had ever wanted to do for the Mark, it was to protect her home from any danger that might threaten it, face-to-face. Not setting the table in preparation for the arrival of the King's Riders, not even issuing the orders to the serving maidens. It would serve no purpose for a land in ruins.

"Yes."

Éohild's surly countenance disappeared as she raised her hands in exaltation. "Glorious day!"

Amused and excited, Éowyn watched her sister's grin stretch to rival the most conniving of tricksters as she explained her plan. She did not recall ever being so passionate with such theatrics. Even so, if this failed to prove a point to their uncle, everything else would. As soon as their slow march reached the center of Meduseld's receiving hall, Éowyn wobbled faintly and fell forward.

Noticing at the last split second, Éohild leapt and caught her sister by the shoulders. Touching Éowyn's forehead, she pulled back her hand as though seared by a boiling pot and gasped. "She's burning. Summon Céolwin!"

In hindsight, as Éomer would later grumble, perhaps Éowyn did not have any business listening to a girl who did not even yet wear a chest sling.

* * *

"My lady, your sister needs her rest. Your worries will not heal her," said Céolwin, resident healer of Edoras. She was only a decade beneath Théoden but looked much younger, hair a darker shade blonde than the rest of them. The guards called for her at once after Éowyn was brought to her room. The woman insisted that she had just seen the king's niece the day previous and it was impossible for her to be ill. She could not deny, however, that the heat Éowyn emanated and the fatigued fluttering of her eyelids that occurred whenever she woke from her intensely deep sleep were unsettling. "I shall return within the next hour to have a quick bath prepared."

Éowyn's arm twitched. She gave a pained groan.

"N-No!" Éohild cried, squeezing between Céolwin and the bed. "I shall give her the bath. You…say, after all, that we must learn more healing methods?"

Céolwin narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. "This is not the time for practice. If Lady Éowyn is in grave condition…"

Éohild wore solemnity like the steeliest helms of the Eorlingas. "Allow me a simple fever like this, Céolwin. I should care the most for her – and I will bring her broth."

The healer was none the wiser, her posture relaxing. "Very well, milady. But you will summon me."

"I promise. Thank you, Céolwin."

Céolwin departed with an uneasy smile. Éohild shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. "Sometimes you act too well, Éowyn. It isn't good to have her too worried!"

Éowyn sat upright, throwing the heavy covers off her body. "How was I to know? Your plan entailed _deathly ill_!"

"Not ill enough to draw Céolwin's attention!"

"I could have only been extremely fatigued from the heat," said Éowyn, lowering her voice and crossing her arms, an indication that the argument was over and she had won.

Éohild disliked the look ever since she grew taller than Éowyn. From above her nose her eyes looked narrowed, but those who were taller than Éowyn, generally men, would see a pout and doe gray eyes that would melt the caps of the Misty Mountains. Éohild rolled her eyes. "I would have been forced to run with boiling water before Céolwin arrived in either story."

"It was a pint, Éohild. And I was made to _cover_ my forehead with it to convince them of your story. Among others."

"All the more precarious."

Éowyn threw her feet off the bed and shed her dress, under which she wore the tunic Théodred had had tailored for them during sword practice. Matching light trousers she took from her wardrobe, and boots she swiped from under the bed. "Are we to argue or to act?"

Hand reaching for the doorknob, Éohild sighed. "The gate. Ten minutes. Are you certain you can distract the guards?"

"Are you certain you can take armor and helmets for us both?"

Éohild huffed.

"The gate. Ten minutes." Hair swept into a ponytail for obscurity, Éowyn lifted the window and climbed out. The sisters had learned every brick out of place beneath their sill and knew the way without falling by heart to sneak to the stables over the past two years. When she disappeared and the sill latch clicked closed, Éohild exited the room. She locked the door and slipped the key into the chest sling she secretly wore. At her age, after all, Éowyn had already worn one! She was convinced it was only a matter of months before she became a woman.

To humor her, Éomer often showed Éohild the roads Théoden's éored would take whenever shifting paths according to reports of attacks, danger, or simply to maximize areas as they made rounds. So preoccupied was Éohild trying to remember the new one he showed her last night that she almost disregarded the call of her name.

It was Bertana, one of Wynne's aids. She had two daughters, a toddler son, and her husband was one of Théodred's Riders. She was one of the more pleasant members of the castle help, except when there was too much to do in the kitchen such as a banquet, then Wynne's constant orders drove her into the state of a panicked wife about to birth a child and she was delegated the task of sweeping, instead.

Éohild whirled. "Bertana." She put on a smile and then dimmed it. Éowyn was ailing, after all.

"How is the Lady? I heard news from Leófe and Eafa," said the older woman, referring to the twins. Eafa was the male of the two, one of the guards of the King's household , while the girl Leófe was an apprentice to Céolwin. She had accompanied the healer and subsequently disappeared during the process of diagnosis. Nearly two decades old and they still gossiped when the opportunity so came.

"She wishes for you not to see her in her…tired state," answered Éohild. "It is best you don't enter. Or anyone, for that matter. If you must give her something, course it through me. Her door is locked for that reason." That excuse would hold well enough, in case anyone sought out Éowyn.

"The poor Lady," Bertana sighed. "A meal would surely lift her spirits."

"Er—Céolwin said broth would only worsen her condition." Éohild silently berated herself. That did not coincide with what she said to the healer at all. "At least, if given immediately. Perhaps later. Much later." When they were already in the company of her uncle.

"Well…if the healer says so," Bertana nodded her assent after a moment of pondering. "But," she asked with some confusion, "where are you going, milady?"

"My brother's chambers. I left my cloak there when I borrowed a band for my hair," she answered. She had it figured already in her mind – Éomer's room was closest to the barracks to the side of Meduseld. Her brother kept all the essentials in his room in case of an attack: his sword and armor, of course, honing steel, sharpening steel, and the like. One of these was rope, and she would tie it to Éomer's sill latch and climb down with her tunic, trousers and boots which she'd planted while Éowyn played the dying woman. Some esquires left their livery in the barracks at night and more than once she had already worn those she managed to 'borrow.'

Bertana accepted her reason and bade her fare well. Éohild set to the task, unlocking her brother's room with a spare key he had given her and Éowyn in case a thief ever climbed in and he cried out for help. (That was upon Éowyn's insistence, clearly, for Éohild knew Éomer would never think of crying out for help as he would never need it.) Locking it again from within, she pushed open the window. A strong breeze like a warning puffed into her face, blowing back her hair, but Éohild ignored it and inched down the rope, palms sweating and burning at the same time. Her feet touched the ground lightly, and then she tiptoed to the barracks at the base of Meduseld's hill, hiding behind a path of shrubs.

The mixed murmur and footsteps of Riders reached her ears, but it was near dinnertime and they were on their way to the dining hall. Éohild easily slipped past their notice and ducked inside. Collecting the armor they needed, she trudged as quietly as she could to the stables. A young gray horse greeted her with a whinny, to which Éohild replied with an index finger to her lips.

"Hush, Windfola!"

Windfola was Éowyn's horse, but Éohild had practiced with him well enough before and had yet to receive her own. She was beginning to suspect that they would never assign her one.

Slouching under the weight of her helm and squire livery, Éohild packed Éowyn's things into their mount's saddlebag. She was tall enough to be mistaken for a young lad leading his horse around the village for a walk. Twilight was a peculiar time of the day to be wandering, and the women would wonder at the Meduseld help the next day who exactly it was, but by then they should have already caught up with their uncle's éored and slain a few Orcs, proving their worth as warriors. It was the perfect plan. Taking a deep breath, Éohild tugged gently at Windfola's reins and led him out of the stable.

Éowyn's hair followed the slight wind. In the evening she might have passed for a lad, but in the dusk she was only lovelier than ever. She stood out too much with those features that contrasted with her tunic. Éohild wasn't surprised to see that she'd opted to speak with the guard as her own pretty self and was motioning to the gate. They were fortunate that news of her illness had not yet spread to the gate despite Eofe's efforts; or perhaps Éowyn was telling the guard of her desire to walk outside despite her fever? Éohild would never understand how her sister managed to evade suspicion so easily in all matters. The gate was starting to open.

Éohild stopped at the edge of the slope, patting Windfola's head in a distracted manner though her gaze remained on Éowyn. The sign was her head lolling backward. When her sister staggered to the side, Éohild swung onto Windfola and went as fast as she could.

"Éowyn!" she called.

Her sister leapt from the soldier's arms and caught Éohild's outstretched hand, climbing Windfola's back. Hearts pounding in their ears, mirth hoarse from their throats, they rode swiftly out of Edoras until the panicked shouting of the guards were no longer in range.

Minutes later, the sisters calmed their excited laughter and Éohild cleared her throat, head turning slightly to the side. "That was a distraction?"

"Could you have thought of one more intelligent?" was Éowyn's retort, adding with measured disgust, "Men do not resist a fainting maiden."

"True," Éohild acquiesced, and then focused on following the king's éored as she remembered Éomer's telling of it. The horse tracks were a great aid, of course, to find a way through the unending rise and fall of hills and trees in their country. But the sky grew darker as the minutes passed, and when the two sisters raised their eyes to the heavens to discover why not a speck of light from the moon guided them, they saw clouds. Multitudes of thick gray clouds, though they couldn't know in such a darkness. Still young and untrained, Windfola pawed uneasily at the ground.

"Shh, Windfola," Éowyn murmured, leaning past her sister and smoothing her hand close to the horse's neck. "It is all right…" When he calmed slightly, trotting forward again – for they had unknowingly slowed as the clouds crept in – she asked her sister, "Where are we going?"

"Well—forward," was Éohild's answer. She kept her voice steady for Windfola's sake. "If I remember correctly, the reports given to Uncle stated that the Orcs were not far from the large hills near the White Mountains, a little southeast of Edoras."

"And we've been going that way," Éowyn sighed. "Why have we not seen Orcs? Where is Éomer? Uncle's éored?"

"They must have gone further out. They did…" Éohild frowned. "…leave early…"

Éowyn huffed. "Pray they left us a few."

Her tone brought back Éohild's conviction. "Yes," she laughed. "An utter waste, should we arrive there with Orcs already smoking in a pyre!"

But as if to punish their sneaking about, the sky brightened for a moment, revealing the row of hills they had been searching for since they left Edoras, only to crackle wickedly—Éohild was certain she recognized the shape of that lightning bolt, that of some long-necked fowl of both grace and power—dim, and send a heavy shower of rain to wash away any tracks they might have felt if they thought to dismount. They had no recourse but to head for the tall hills. To the last of their fortune, one of these was hollow, containing an earthy cavern within. It led into a small tunnel connecting what may have been all the hills they had seen, but they could never know, too preoccupied with seeking shelter from the cold.

Setting out the little blankets they had deep into the hole in the hills, Éohild and Éowyn sat together near a fire. It was small and barely five wisps of a flame, but it was all they could muster with the materials they were willing to spare. Windfola sat close to it, keeping it alive with his proximity, and allowed the girls to lie against him.

When she was finished wringing out her hair, Éowyn grumbled. "This was a terrible idea. I told you."

"But you wanted to do it!" Éohild cried, sitting up. Windfola jerked in annoyance. "If this was against your will, you—"

"All right, all right," said Éowyn, raising her voice to meet her sister's. "Let us not bicker. We shall find our way home in the morning."

Éohild made a face at her. This was another way Éowyn ended arguments these days when she knew she was losing. Still, she agreed and lay back on the gray horse. "Éomer will be furious."

The sisters exchanged grimaces before bursting into giggles. They had turned teasing their irritable brother into a sport to spite him for being permitted to join the ranks of the Riders. He disliked Grima, one of their Uncle's bug-eyed but well-meaning advisors, and absolutely hated it when they made jokes about him becoming a member of the man's personal guard.

Éowyn sighed. "A shame neither of us were able to kill an Orc for all this trouble."

"If we were there," Éohild yawned, curling up to her sister, "fighting off the Orcs would be much easier."

Éowyn made a motion of drawing her sword and slicing it sideways. "I would kill it through the chest."

"I always thought I would hack its legs off," Éohild grinned. "When I was little."

"You are still little."

"Not as little as you."

Éowyn rolled her eyes, but was too tired to argue. For a few moments, only the flickering fire made any sound until Éohild spoke again.

"This is what it must mean."

Rest had come so close for Éowyn, and so she didn't bother to look at Éohild. Her throat was hoarse when she asked in what felt like hours later, "…What?"

"Adventure," Éohild answered immediately. Her sister wondered if she was sleep-talking given the languid manner in which she uttered it. "It…It's sleeping on the hard, unforgiving ground with naught but a blanket in the shivering cold."

Éowyn opened her eyes with the slightest smile. "Don't forget a trusty Windfola." She patted his back, but he was lucky enough to have already been fast asleep. Drawing her blanket closer to Éohild, she asked, "Do you regret it?"

"No!" Éohild muttered with what may have been the last of her energy. Her eyes were already closed. Or they could have always been. Éowyn couldn't tell. Éohild's voice grew softer until she could no longer hear it. "Not…for a moment…"

Éohild slept, but she never truly rested. She slumbered in short bursts and at the smallest noises. Once, when she realized the rain had finally subsided and their fire had long fallen to ash, she could no longer return to her dreams of an eternity sitting before the river Snowbourn. The murmuring that reached her ears was not the pitter-patter of rain. A rotten stench filled her senses even before she was aware of it, and she could see a faint orange light near the entrance of the cave. She could tell that it was fire; not the dawn.

"Éowyn," she whispered, shaking her sister roughly. "Éowyn, we're not alone."

Éowyn grumbled. The murmurs grew louder; in fear, Éohild clamped her hand over her own mouth. She rose slowly, legs trembling, cringing when she swallowed. Her hands were freezing when she buckled on her belt sheathe, tiptoeing closer to the intruders, in contrast with the sweat rising on her back. Did they hear it?

Disfigured shadows crept high on the cavern wall against the fire. There were four of them. She could barely make out the words between the grunting, but Éohild was certain she did not mishear _filthy Men_. One of them hurled his sword at the ground within Éohild's sight at the turn of the tunnel. It was encased in a filthy scabbard; a kind her Uncle had brought back more than once. These were Orcs.

Éohild thought her chest might burst. Her first instinct was to glance where Éowyn remained hidden, to her relief. They could wait until the Orcs left and then they would be safe. If it came to blows, then—then she wished more than anything that their brother would find them.

A shadow came upon Éohild's feet as soon as she turned back. Upon closer inspection, it was hardly a spectre cast by the fire. It wouldn't stink of blood and sweat if it were, for one. Or snicker, hoist her up by the shoulders, and throw her to the ground at the feet of its companions.

Éohild felt the bruises forming on her knees, though her blinding, deafening awareness of the beasts that surrounded her imbued in the girl the presence of mind to rise. It could not be contested that they were ugly. Éomer and Théodred had described them before, and this vision was far worse than she had ever imagined. To her mind the monsters that had slain her father were gurgling, roaring beasts with fanged teeth and blood made of poison. With the little bravery she had, she looked upon one and saw that its teeth were indeed jagged, but they were hardly incoherent.

"What do we have here?"

By their accents she could not tell whence they had come, but that they could speak frightened her all the more. It meant they could think, plan, outmaneuver her. She felt as though they towered over her by at least a head or two, though she could not tell if it was her own gripping fear making them greater in her eyes. Éohild's trembling arms crossed over her body, and the Orcs howled in laughter all the louder.

"A little girl."

Éohild tried to remember what it was Théodred and Gamling had taught them for so many years. The basic stances and the more complicated maneuvers faded as quickly as they came to mind, however, as all she wanted to do was break into tears. If she were to die, was all it could repeat over and over again, then at least Éowyn would live to see tomorrow. Once the Orcs left the cavern she could return to Edoras and Éomer would avenge her death.

"Fresh meat."

If Théodred were in her position, he would fight his way out completely unscathed, hair tossing gloriously behind him. Éomer would have thought to tell someone where he was going, at least, in case his plan went awry. And Uncle Théoden would never have gotten himself into this to begin with.

"Just what I was hankerin' for!"

"No!" Éohild cried. If she was going to die, then the honorable thing to do was to go down in battle. They would sing that she slew at least one Orc before her untimely death and be remembered as…

One of them drew its sword. "Which tastes better – the leg or the gut?" it asked, licking its black lips.

Éohild let out a yell, drawing two long daggers from her belt sheathe. By the time the Orcs realized she had actual weapons, however, one of them had already fallen by the longsword of the young woman they had forgotten to take into account.

"Do not dare touch my sister, Orc," spat Éowyn, raising her blade at those facing her.

When they snarled and then laughed at Éowyn's similarly shaking arm, Éohild shouted again. Running towards the Orc in closest range, she sliced her twin blades across its knees. Their skin was thicker than she had imagined. The Orc only grunted and moved to kick her, and Éohild threw herself sideways to dodge a moment too late. It kicked her on her back and looked around for its sword. Struggling to her knees and coughing while it found its weapon, she plunged a dagger between its legs.

"Come here, brat!" roared the Orc who caught her. It lifted her by the neck this time, and Éohild wondered if it felt any remorse at all for its companions. The Orcs hardly reacted at the death of one of their own.

"Release her, beast!" demanded Éowyn, dodging the others lunging at her to attack it. Her sword managed to puncture its shoulder before it pulled away and maneuvered its own weapon so that hers flew out of her grasp.

"Stay down," it hissed, slapping her across the face hard enough to knock her into the cavern wall. Éowyn fell unconscious to the ground.

"Éowyn!" Éohild choked out. Strength overpowered the fear that had gripped her and begged to come out of her fingers and heels. Eyes on her sister, she swung her feet at the Orc's chest and knocked the wind out of it.

The Orc swore and released her, allowing her to crouch and retake her dagger from a dead one's pelvic bone right as another swung his sword over her head. Still on all fours, she scurried over and stabbed its foot. Bellowing, it hacked at her neck, but she dropped to her left, rolling on her back. It nearly chopped her hair off. In its furious haste to lunge at her exposed gut, the Orc tripped over Éohild's outlying leg. That was certain now to bruise.

Éohild scampered to her feet and leapt at the Orc while it recovered, knifing it in the back and thrusting her other dagger into its neck for good measure.

"You're dead," said the last one. She'd forgotten about him in her panic. Éohild would always remember the face of the first Orc she laid eyes on, advancing towards her, lifting his sword—

A loud whinny echoed throughout the cave. Both Éohild and the Orc paused until the eyes of the former widened. The Orc followed her gaze and shrieked as a gray horse of the Mark came upon him and trampled him to death.

It seemed a long while after she vomited at the side of the cave when Éohild simply fell to one spot, staring at Windfola's bloody hooves and her own weapons, bathed in thick black fluid that once coursed life into a monster. When the only sounds left were her ragged breathing and Windfola stomping on the dead Orcs for good measure, the horse sniffing disdainfully, Éohild dropped her knives and struggled to stand. All the energy she possessed during the fight had somehow escaped her as soon as they were safe. When she could not rise, she crawled to her sister, wiping her own mouth. Any slower and Éowyn's heartbeat would proclaim her dead.

"Éowyn!" screamed Éohild with all her might. This was not the adventure they had planned. The result would have left them both alive. Perhaps not unscathed, but alive in excitement at their first kills. "Éowyn!"

Éohild felt her eyes sting and her throat catch with tears, but contained herself and kept to the task of waking Éowyn, slapping her, yelling and threatening her if she did not budge. When she finally ceased, Éohild resorted to cradling Éowyn in her arms and singing weakly an old lullaby, Windfola lying innocently at her side, until the battering of hooves startled the ground near the earthy caverns and she heard their names echoing in the distance.


	2. Chapter 1

You're back! Great! We thought we had scared you off.

Our chapter today does not flesh out much of the events that happened after the prologue. Not with dialogue, anyway. Senna might write something about it in the future, but to go in detail would take a lot of chapters, and we thought it enough to show a very tiny bit of the few who became her friends. We also see Éohild's dislike of too much attention - we would say she's something of an introvert. Is fine with a few friends, not quite a champion of the people, but does well enough socially. Better with children than too many adults, though occasionally gets a burst of feeling responsible. She is only 21 at the start of the Fellowship, after all.

We forgot to add in the prologue's Author's Notes (although it's up there now): Théoden looks as he does in the film - young - and his age was adjusted to fit this. That way he is about 31 years old during the attack at Isen, only 4 years older than Éomer, 8 years older than Éowyn, and 10 years older than Éohild.

We'll leave you to it.

* * *

**The Province of Men**

**Chapter 1**

"To your side!"

"Swing! Cross—ohh!"

Men draped in the livery of the Mark groaned, shook their heads in disappointment, and dispersed from the courtyard. An old man with a graying beard caught his breath, grinning in amusement at the young woman who remained. Like his, her golden hair was sloppily drawn back into a ponytail, though unlike him, she hardly appeared tired; only frustrated. She dropped her blade in surrender when the tip of his touched the base of her neck.

"You give your left arm too little credit, Éohild," said the man. "When any part of you becomes a crutch for another, both are rendered useless."

Éohild blew the stray hairs out of her face in a sigh. "I understand." Stiffly she glanced over her shoulder, and relaxed when she saw then that their spectators had thinned out. "Have I truly disappointed?" she called out to the two left. They had been at it for a few minutes already and a crowd had gathered; at least until her anti-climactic loss at that moment, thanks to a feint she had not trusted herself to come through with for fear of failure. She blamed her fellowmen; they had come to watch the old man, and their cheering and coaching had made her tense.

"You might have done better," laughed Gárwine, a comrade sharpening his sword. His constantly slanted eyebrows made him look as though he pitied her more than meant to humiliate.

"Satisfactory," another, Baldred, kindly offered. His hair was tied for better concentration as he fletched arrows. Her closest friends in the éored who had joined at the same time, she and the two comprised a trio that once hated each other as squires, competing with one another for good favor, but had come together in their first encounter with Orcs. They found then that they were much more suited to friendship than enmity.

"So, you see, this old man still has quite a bit of fight left in him," announced he who had been entrusted with her recovery. His name was Erkenbrand, and in long years past he had served her Uncle in close friendship and knighthood. Now, upon Théodred's request, he counseled the muster at the Hornburg.

"There was never a time I doubted it," answered Éohild, picking up her sword and sheathing it with her right hand. Wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her fingers and with a wrinkle of her nose, she crouched down and fell to her posterior with a painful _thud_. She stretched her legs on the cold stone and shook out the tension in her right arm.

"How is it?" asked Erkenbrand, a trace of concern in his rumbling voice.

"Better," she said, touching it lightly without cringing. Her arm had been grazed by an enemy's sword in their most recent sortie with Orcs, leaving it useless while they fought on. Almost as soon as it ended, she raced back to the Hornburg for proper bandaging, but it was taking her much more time than the average to recover. Erkenbrand said it was the sword tainted with malice, Théodred said it was simply that her wounds had always ever been abdominal and that she was not accustomed to being handicapped.

In any case, the old man had experienced it long ago and agreed to aid her recovery with practice. "You are learning, at least," said Erkenbrand, sheathing his sword. "Better than when you first started."

Éohild reddened in embarrassment. She had been so frustrated on their first day that she had swung at him with all her might with her good arm, only to lose balance, reminiscent of her first days as a squire – and she would rather not remember those days. Wet behind the ears, they said she was the epitome of. _Ears_ as she was known then for short, and they had shown her no mercy despite her being a woman, or the King's niece. It was both glorious and humiliating.

"Yes, well—"

"Éohild?"

Erkenbrand smiled, bowing with ease, while Éohild rose to her feet with her good arm and emulated the old man. "Marshal," they both greeted.

Théodred dismissed their stances with a nod and watched his cousin dust herself off. "How goes the training?" he asked his counselor.

"Improving," said Erkenbrand, eyes wrinkling in amusement. "In a few days, we shall see her doleful temperament finally leave us."

"Ah, good to hear," laughed Théodred, catching the joke. "We all know how Éohild is in a mood."

Baldred and Gárwine, who had stayed to watch their friend, guffawed and slapped their knees if only to humiliate her further. "Have a care, Marshal," called Gárwine, catching his breath. "She may retaliate when the mood returns."

Éohild waved her hand dismissively despite the grin Théodred shot them. When Erkenbrand slipped away after another perfunctory bow, having grown tired despite his skill, she asked, "What can I do for you, Marshal?"

"Return to Edoras before us," said Théodred, playing the Marshal again. Before she could attempt to interrupt, he spoke, "Do not contest me, cousin. Éowyn will be glad of your arrival—and you know it is for the better."

Éohild shook her head. "I understand. Orc numbers are low and it is safer for me to travel."

Théodred narrowed his eyes. "Agreement? Are you truly Éohild, daughter of Eomund, or the work of a conjurer? I jest," he laughed at the curl of her lip, thumping her on the back like a man. This, she was familiar with. "At the break of dawn. Will you manage?"

Éohild closed a fist over her chest and inclined her head. "Of course, Marshal."

"Very good. Now, rest," he ordered, then turned to his Riders sitting on the sidelines. "Gárwine. Baldred. Because you see fit to giggle at Éohild's condition like young handmaidens, attend to her needs. Feed her, draw her a bath—anything she asks."

The two balked at the countenance in which he uttered the words—entirely serious. "Yes, my lord," Baldred bowed for them. Nodding, Théodred walked away.

"Anything I ask, was it?" Éohild repeated thoughtfully.

"This always—always happens," Gárwine muttered, setting down his honing steel and sheathing his sword.

"Only to you, my friend," Baldred laughed. "The last time, I believe the sprain in my ankle caused you two such amusement that the Marshal asked you to become my serving lads for the evening."

"_Maiden_. One of us was a maiden, as I recall," corrected Éohild, eyeing Gárwine deviously.

"Never again," he warned, revealing the subtle sheen of his blade as he redrew it shortly. It glinted against the sunset, but Baldred only snorted it away.

"All right," sighed Éohild, raising her hands in surrender. "No dresses. A mere bath, and some food, please."

Although they did care for her, her friends did no more than they often did; simply ask one of the serving women attending to the barracks to draw the prince's cousin a bath 'for her arm can scarcely move on its own,' was their excuse, and flanked her sides on their way to the mess hall in case she fell on her journey for nourishment. When both tasks were completed, Éohild summarily dismissed the two who flourished their arms as they bowed, humorously retreating backwards until they knocked over a rack of swords.

Éohild slept. The next morning went by in such a breeze that when she lifted her head to take in her surroundings, she was already sitting outside Edoras. Fleetfoot must have gone ahead to the city, for she sat before a shallow bank of the Snowbourn river, buds of simbelmynë drifting along its endless course.

She leaned forward to pick one when she brushed her hand over a clutter of reeds. This kind grew only near Edoras, and at once the flowers fell from Éohild's mind. Uninteresting though they were, she knew at once that she would tend them forever. At the back of her mind, she knew that white birds long of neck had settled on the bank across, but her eyes remained on the reeds. She could not tear her gaze from them or they would die; she knew it. So Éohild remained, caring for them always, watching them wilt in the winter and sprout again in spring, some crisped and dry in the summer and some shivering even in autumn.

It grew to a point that Éohild would rather leave than see them die again, but doing so would kill them until she found another who could care for them in her stead. Éohild was trapped. So, overlooking the white birds who called to her from across the water, she wept for her cruel fate, and cried out as the reeds pulled her into the river to bind her to them for all eternity.

Éohild opened her eyes to a bright light broken into fragments by black, imposing shadows. She gasped for air, clawing at her throat, for she could not breathe. Hands grabbed her shoulders and squeezed before pulling her into an embrace.

"Éohild! Awaken!"

Her vision cleared at the voice, eyes adjusting to the moonlight outside. When the arms released her, she saw Théodred, Leofred their healer – Bertana's husband – and five others of their éored who both grumbled and watched her with worry. Gárwine carried a torch, wiping his hands of the oil that had spilled in his haste, while Baldred winced at her side. "What happened, Éohild?"

"We thought you were—"

"Were what?" asked Éohild, voice rough as though she was a little girl again, shrieking at Éowyn before attacking each other. But that had not been her dream.

"Delivering," Théodred finished, sending the men a look of distaste. They muttered wearily among themselves, some bearing swords and others still rubbing their eyes. Baldred clapped her good shoulder for comfort before bowing to their Marshal and departing the room with the others. Leofred, having touched her forehead and finding nothing wrong, was permitted to leave as well.

"Delivering," Éohild mumbled after a beat, "a baby?"

"So you did not hear your own screams," whispered Théodred, tightly gripping her. He rocked her gently in his arms as though she were a child, and Éohild would have felt embarrassed if he had not done this for his cousins when they had first come to Edoras, one of her few memories left from her first five winters.

"What was it that made you weep so? Tell me, Éohild," said Théodred, relaxing his grip.

"Reeds," she recalled as she finally woke, "and birds. Simbelmynë, and the Snowbourn."

"What?" Théodred smiled, letting her head nestle into the pillow again and brushing her hair up from her back so that her neck was cold. It was how she liked to sleep. "How could home have been a nightmare?"

"I don't know," she shook her head, closing her eyes. Why ever would she weep for reeds? It was silly, and she was sorry to have woken the others for it. Tomorrow, though she dreaded it, she would apologize. "It was only a dream."

"Yes, it was," said Théodred, relief clear in his voice, and kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep. Long day yet tomorrow."

* * *

Stragglers. That was what Théodred called the Orcs whom they had faced. It was their cousin's éored who had found them first, having encountered some Riders stationed in Edoras setting out to find the sisters right as they returned home. The prince knew the two well enough to understand their short-sighted plan and set out for the path his father had taken.

They met a Rider from the King's men not long after. It was common practice for an éored to send one of its knights ahead to Edoras to alert the city of the arrival of some of their members. The prince sent him back to Théoden King with a message: Tell Éomer not to panic.

The message only caused the boy more worry, of course. He begged his Uncle to let him ride back to the hills, search for his sisters – for what else could Théodred have meant? – but Théoden was of a mind with his son and refused, resolutely. He ordered his nephew to calm himself and wait until Théodred returned, and with good news. At least, he prayed it was so.

Théodred wasted no time getting to them, taking Brego and his fastest Riders to search the hills for any trace of his cousins, if only they were not washed away by the rain. In the end, his horse led them to the caverns. Brego protested fiercely against nearing a stretch of the hills they had not yet explored.

When he climbed the soft crest and found that he could hardly descend it without Brego stubbornly stomping his hind leg, Théodred began to hear it—the song his mother once sang to him, the same his father did for his cousins when they first arrived at Meduseld as frightened orphans. It was not long after when they discovered the sisters and brave Windfola.

Céolwin nursed Éowyn back to health. The girl was hardy, and though she required much rest, it was nothing compared to the wounds those of the King's éored had sustained in the battle the previous night. In the meantime, Éohild received reprimand after reprimand. She could hardly walk around Meduseld in the two weeks her sister recovered without having someone at least shake their head at her reprovingly.

Yes, she knew what might have happened if Théodred had never found them. Yes, she understood that they could have been easily killed had the beasts been of a greater number. Yes, she knew more than anyone that what befell Éowyn was her doing. Her sister's, too, for agreeing to it, but Éohild understood that they were less angry with her for she had been the one injured and that should have been lesson enough.

Éomer embraced her tightly as soon as they met, and then, even at eighteen, rebuked her relentlessly and refused to speak with her until she began to think before 'reveling in her own stupidity.' _War is the province of men_, did she not understand? Uncle Théoden punished her by forbidding her from leaving Meduseld until she learned her lesson. Still Éohild had already perfected the art of descending through their window and back to see Windfola, upon whom praise was heaped in the form of wondrous hay.

Théodred was quite displeased as well, but was the first to overcome his initial shock. He had gone past Éowyn's injury and seen, as they intended, the result of their plan. The prince was impressed. He recommended them for further training, insisting his female cousins had potential, no matter if they were women. Windfola, too. But Théodred could only intercede for so much with his father, he later explained to Éohild when Théoden had agreed that only his younger niece would continue training. She had not understood at the time that Théodred meant it would break his father's heart to see his most beloved sister-daughter in battle, too.

Éomer gave an outright _no_. Or, as the case had been, _Out of the question_! But Éohild wanted it more than anything, knowing then the threat of the monsters on their people and understanding that with training, she could begin to face them fearlessly. Théoden took his son's word to heart more than any his advisors could give him. Despite the disapproval of some in Meduseld or the entirety of Edoras, Gamling focused on Éohild's training.

Years passed and the beauty of Éowyn became renown in all the land. Éohild felt envy stir in her heart, but she pushed it aside as best she could and poured it all into practice. After all, if Éowyn was the pretty one, she would be the powerful one. It was only fair. Unbeknownst even to her, Éohild had already rationalized it this way long before, when Éowyn finally woke after their expedition and asked what happened. Éohild, having already been informed by Théodred of her new status as a squire, answered only with an apology.

Soon, Éohild grew to the age of becoming a Rider. Éomer requested that she be placed in the King's éored with him, but their Uncle and cousin agreed that he would put too much effort into protecting her. Instead, Théodred took her under his wing, to which Éomer could only begrudgingly agree. The Second Marshal of the Mark made rounds near the Hornburg, so Éohild was away for weeks at a time. Upon Éowyn's request and for Éomer's own peace of mind, she was always the Rider sent ahead to Edoras before her Marshal arrived to report to the King.

It aggravated Éohild at first, that she should remain in Edoras at times, but she grew into the role of watching the counselor Gríma Wormtongue with a wary stance. Wormtongue was a nickname the man had earned over the years. Éohild could not tell when it happened or if it was something she merely overlooked as a child, but her Uncle's advisor had turned from simply bug-eyed to leery as Éowyn grew past her teen years. And although Éowyn needed no protection from her, Éohild still took comfort in being around her sister whenever she stayed in Meduseld, and the two never split rooms despite Éohild's instatement as a Rider.

One early evening, not a fortnight since half the year had slipped away, Éowyn and Éohild stood outside the balcony of Meduseld overlooking Edoras. Théodred would be coming in from the west soon and Éohild was sent ahead to see to their arrangements. For the past few weeks, sleep had been uneasy for her. She woke in the middle of some nights with a feeling of dread, almost as if she expected a knock on her door with news of death. Whose, she could not tell.

Only the night before had she remembered her dream—of swans and reeds, and an unending duty to her people. But why would she dread such a thing? That afternoon, when she arrived and looked upon the faces of their people, she knew she could never doubt her duty to protect her home. It must have been the kingdom's collective worry for their Uncle making her heart heavy.

Théoden King had developed a sickness over many years, to the point that he could no longer serve as First Marshal of the Mark. He was confined to his throne or his bed, and Céolwin could do little more for him than recommend broths and a change in lifestyle. It was a year since his people had truly seen him last.

"Uncle's condition can only worsen," sighed Éowyn, hair falling elegantly to her slender waist. She had grown only more melancholy when her sister became a Rider. The fire to join battle had not diminished, but she kept it deeper in her heart now, and outwardly was cold to those who sought her hand. With Théodred, Éomer, and Éohild in service of the Eorlingas, care of the King as well as their people outside matters of war had fallen to her.

"But he is strong," said Éohild, tugging at the wisps of hair over her chest. Riders of the Mark did not wear their blond locks as long as the women, but she allowed hers to grow at least over her chest. Théodred and the rest of her comrades in the éored agreed laughingly, saying that any shorter and no man would think to court her out of fear.

If they hadn't yet. Éohild had never before been courted, no matter if she was constantly surrounded by men. Those of their éored were too akin to cousins for her that she did not wish for a partner out of any of them, in any case. Gárwine and Baldred, closest to her heart, were a testament to that.

"A lesser man would have succumbed to an illness like his. Though," she added grimly, "that snake is not at all an aid. I wish Théodred would banish him for good."

"Uncle depends on his word. More so than cousin's, now," said Éowyn, making a face unbecoming of a Lady of her stature. Only to each other did they speak of these things. Some women in the village constantly drew conversation to the leery-eyed man, especially with Éowyn, but the sisters had become adept enough at deflecting their attempts to turn them into fodder.

Éohild snorted in laughter at her unlikely visage, cupping her mouth only when Éowyn blinked at her in slight shock. Men were sometimes a terrible influence, though Éohild always tried to act the Lady when in Edoras or in a dress.

Éowyn overlooked it to glance at an unknown rider coming up to the gate. "Look," she held her sister's hand. "Who is that?"

Not an enemy, presumed Éohild, for the knights at the gate gladly opened it for him. His features grew more familiar as he ascended the hill, the confidence of a leader clear in his posture. Robust with brown hair cropped at the collar, the regal man bore on his tunic the White Tree of Minas Tirith and the pride of Men in his eyes.

Éowyn met him at the foot of the stairs with a curtsy. The man dismounted and bowed. "Lord Boromir of Gondor," she greeted him with a smile. "The halls of Meduseld have not seen you in years."

"Is it you, Lady Éowyn?" he asked, his serious countenance breaking into a grin. "You have not at all changed."

"Except grown in beauty and splendor," added Éohild, joining them and taking his horse's reins from him.

"Lady Éohild!" Boromir laughed pleasantly as they exchanged courtesies, "Do you know me so well?"

"Only my sister."

Éowyn shook her head. She disliked it whenever she spoke of beauty Éohild did not believe she herself possessed. They had never spoken of it, though she was aware of the effect that talk of it held over her sister. No matter if Éohild feigned a disregard for the subject; Éowyn saw through her easily. Still, she asked, "What is the manner of your visit, my lord?"

Boromir's expression turned stately once more as his eyes drifted to the doors of the golden hall. "I have come to pay a call to King Théoden."

"He remains ill," Éowyn replied, regretfully.

"I am sorry to hear it," Boromir offered. "Are Théodred and Éomer in the city?"

"The Marshals are outside with their éored," Éohild answered. "Éomer in the east and Théodred in the west."

"I see." Disappointment glanced the Captain-General's face. "That is fine. I would tell you both what I shall ask of them, in any case."

"Let us not discuss in the cold eve. Please, come inside, Lord Boromir," said Éowyn. "We shan't let your journey come to waste. The King will surely see you. Nonetheless, keep in mind that he is nearly overcome by his illness. He depends heavily on his counselor."

"Counselor?" asked Boromir, shrugging and readjusting his belongings. "Did he not have many?"

"They left one by one and never returned," said Éohild, as though she were telling a frightening tale. "Their disappearance remains a mystery to us all. Save for the Wormtongue."

Speaking of the "traitorous" counselors, according to Gríma, would only worsen the King's affliction. Éowyn hardly believed it herself, for those advisors had been of the King's own éored and her father's friends as well, but Gríma rather liked the sound of his own voice and reprimanded whoever thought to oppose him. "Sister, will you take Lord Boromir's steed to the stables? We shall meet you inside."

"My pleasure," Éohild nodded at their guest before attending to his mount. "You will get on gloriously with Fleetfoot and Windfola, my dear."

Windfola had remained with Éowyn while Fleetfoot, a young, chestnut horse, became Éohild's after their first Orc encounter. The latter grew to be strong and fast in their days training together with the Riders. Boromir's horse met their pride head on and it was clear as soon as the three met eyes that Fleetfoot and Windfola understood—they were horses of the Riddermark, while Boromir's steed had seen more battles and so commanded respect as well. As predicted, they got along famously.

Éohild hurried to Meduseld, where Háma, loyal knight and door ward, informed her that her sister and their guest were with the King. And Gríma, of course. She heard his voice as soon as she entered the hall.

"And what business have you riding through the Mark, Lord Boromir?" the advisor spat out the name.

Éohild turned her head away from the sight of her Uncle's chief counselor. Sole counselor, now. His dark hair was oily, he was constantly sweating and his pasty white skin was almost unsightly. And why wouldn't it be so? He hardly ever left the golden hall and wore heaps of that dark clothing over himself. Éohild didn't remember him like this when he first came into the King's service.

Boromir, having knelt before the King of the Mark, raised his head and stood to address the advisor. "I journeyed from my city to meet a friend in the North, and thought to visit those in the Mark. I have not seen the golden hall in many a year."

"What manner of friend?" Gríma asked with obvious suspicion. "We will bear no secrecy in these halls, my lord."

Boromir frowned. The counselor had addressed him with something akin to mockery, but Éowyn stepped between them to deflect Gríma's insult. "My lord," she said, looking only at Théoden, "Lord Boromir is fatigued from his journey. He must rest."

Éohild shuddered from the shadows. She preferred to stay out of Gríma's view; he had disliked her ever since she became a Rider. Even from where she stood, she could see the advisor take in hungrily the sight of her sister. It was enough to make Éohild ill, herself.

"Very well," Gríma acquiesced.

Éowyn always had guest chambers prepared in case visitors arrived, though it was a rare occasion since Théoden King's health started to fail. She was a wondrous lady of the house this way, something Éohild knew she could never become. With years of training, perhaps. More than what it took to turn her into a worthy Rider.

Éohild met Éowyn and Boromir on their way to the latter's quarters. He was quiet, and it ate away at her to know whether it was out of deep thought or disapproval. While Boromir had always been friendly, a welcome guest to her cousin and Uncle before his sickness struck, it was a long time since they had received visitors from Gondor. While this Captain knew of her status, his opinion was an entirely different matter. Some of even their éored and her brother's still found her odd, so she had learned long ago to watch her actions and lose as little approval of men as she could help. Not always her words, perhaps - in fact, women of the household said her remarks had retained the audacity of men from her childhood, for thoughts often slipped where a lady would have simply pursed her lips - but weakness was no longer a thing prevalent outside time spent alone with her thoughts. Ever she reminded herself that she might lose her position with a single error. Last night's screaming debaucle, which simply did not coincide with her dream, was something she could not repeat again.

"Our apologies for the cautious manner in which you were received," she said to him instead. Éowyn nearly balked in surprise, shooting Éohild a curious look, but, truly the lady, allowed her sister to carry on. "Gríma is not so artful at concealing his discomfort."

"Since you speak of it, my lady," replied Boromir, "There is an oppressive air about Edoras that was absent in my last visit. Is it that counselor?"

"Yes," Éohild wrinkled her nose. "And the King's malady. It has only worsened these past years."

"But," Éowyn interrupted, signaling the other woman with a shake of her head, "let us not dampen your spirits with our troubles, my lord."

"It is no trouble. But if the lady wishes not to discuss it, then…"

Éohild stopped before his door and asked, since he was willing to change the subject, "Lord Boromir, what was it you wished to ask the King? I must commend your prudence."

"I knew at once this Gríma could not be trusted." Pulling back, Boromir searched the hall for signs of life. It was empty for the time being. He spoke in a murmur, "Mere nights ago, my brother and I dreamt of…" He paused, measuring his words. "Imladris; Rivendell, the dwelling of Lord Elrond. Simply put, my father believes the reason for this is that the Elves have come upon a weapon. One that will shift the tides of war."

"Truly?" asked Éowyn.

Boromir nodded. "I go to seek answers. Éomer or Théodred I thought an ideal companion, for the Northern lands have been deserted for too long. But I see now that with the King's illness, fulfilling this request is impractical."

"Indeed," Éowyn replied regretfully, making a motion of some sort to Éohild. Her younger sister silently opened the door for her. "Dinner will be brought to you soon, my lord."

"Thank you, my lady," said Boromir, gratefully.

"You are fortunate, Lord Boromir," said Éohild, when Éowyn departed to issue orders for their visitor's meal. "Every month or so, Théodred and Éomer come home to report to the King. They will arrive tomorrow. The Marshal sent me here beforehand to prepare their things."

Standing at the doorway, Boromir smiled. "That is good news. Thank you, my lady."

Éohild nodded. "Good evening," she said, and closed his door as she left. As she made her way to her room, she was halted by Leófe. She was a healer now in her own right, but remained in the King's household in Céolwin's stead while the older woman tended to others in the city.

Joined by two young serving women carrying food and wine, Leófe gave a small curtsy. "Milady."

"Evening," smiled Éohild. She eyed the roasted meat with longing. Recently, her appetite had weakened to give way to her feeling of dread, but that had momentarily dissipated upon the Gondorian's arrival. "For Lord Boromir, I presume?"

"Yes, milady," said Erna, a serving girl of eighteen who knew the sisters well. She had been chosen to serve at Meduseld since childhood and had always easily been more casual to the King's sister-daughters though they were her betters. It was this familiarity that allowed Erna to look like she had just heard the funniest thing from her friend, standing shyly behind Leófe. Éohild sometimes envied her confidence despite her station.

Catching the infectious giggle that slipped from Willa's throat, Éohild turned at her curiously, wearing an uncertain smile. "What is it?"

"Forgive us, milady," said Erna, lowering her head. "Willa thinks our new guest is the handsomest southern lord she has ever seen."

"He is the only Gondorian lord you have ever seen," said Leófe, shaking her head at the younger women as though she had never gossiped in her life.

"Has he - has he come to ask for Lady Éowyn's hand in marriage, milady?" asked Willa, bravely. She had come to serve later and had always been somewhat shy. This was their first conversation, though it was good to know the girl could speak.

"Not at all," Éohild laughed, though her mirth dampened at the thought that Gríma might be listening, possibly even delighted at the very idea. Perhaps she should say so, if only to incense the man, though it would certainly deteriorate his treatment of their guest.

"It would be a fitting marriage, don't you think?" asked Erna. "Lord Boromir is renowned in his land, they say! And the Lady is beloved of the King and the Mark."

"Lady Éohild, you - why, you are also a sister-daughter of the King. Perhaps he has come for your hand...?" Willa wildly speculated. "Oh, forgive me," she blushed, "but you must rare for the fires of battle, not of a man's heart!"

"No one is to be wed," Éohild sighed, looking to Leófe for help. She would have taken the statement as a personal affront and a presumption at familiarity if they were not so young and she had not, in her adolescent years, gossiped about others in the éored with Gárwine and Baldred, too. Sometimes, they still did.

"Girls," scolded the healer, "Cease this pestering of the lady. She will tell us," said Leófe, smiling knowingly, "whatever she wills."

Éohild stared at Leófe in disbelief before giving a chuckle in surrender. Once known as the castle gossip, Leófe had quickly grown into a matronly woman of twenty-seven when her twin died of a terrible illness. She preferred now propriety to the excitement of rumors, but it gladdened her to know that the occasional one did not hurt, although it was at her expense. "You have not changed, Healer, despite your loquacity. Lord Boromir will take his leave tomorrow, likely after he has spoken with the Marshals. His is merely a friendly visit, for he journeys North."

"Whyever would he go North? There is nothing there but old fortresses and Dunlendings!" Erna gave a horrified gasp.

"I shall say no more," declared Éohild, stepping aside and nodding at the women to pass.

"And you are taciturn as ever, keeping secrets from the household," sighed Leófe, then smirked. "It seems my _loquacity _has fulfilled its duty."

Éohild bowed in resignation, unable to help her smile for the often solemn healer. "As it does for all women."

* * *

Éowyn was still asleep when she awoke the next morning. Éomer and Théodred would arrive soon, so Éohild dressed into her breeches, ready to meet them when they returned. But first came breakfast. To her joyful shock, the two were already waiting in the dining hall, chatting animatedly with Boromir.

"Marshals," she bowed formally when she saw them. "Lord Boromir."

Théodred was the first to dismiss her with a smile, but Éomer came to her side at once for an embrace. "Good morning, sister." He eyed her left arm with some displeasure but said nothing.

"Good morning," she greeted them all, nodding gratefully at Éomer for keeping silent about her injury. Any other time and he would have shown a little too much concern, enough to embarrass her before their guest. Boromir rose politely in greeting before taking his seat again. "When did you return?" asked Éohild, failing to conceal her excitement. "I did not hear you come."

"We arrived before dawn," answered Théodred, handing her a plate as she took a seat beside Boromir. The two Marshals were in constant correspondence and had thought to come later that evening, but they had often traveled during the day for the past months and feared that Orc scouts might expect the same. "Windfola and Fleetfoot were quite unsettled, though Lord Boromir's horse attempted to calm him. Imagine, a Gondorian horse tending to one of the Mark!"

"Imagine our surprise when you and Éowyn were still asleep. Soundly," Éomer grinned, elbowing Théodred as he ate. The prince chuckled in amusement. It had turned into an ongoing quip between the two Marshals, how Windfola was so bonded with the sisters that his mood reflected theirs—including the loud snoring and shifting temperaments.

Something about horses being finely attuned to the mood swings of women. Éohild thought it held some validity despite the snickers of their brother and cousin, but Windfola and Éowyn had always felt closer. He was hers first, after all. Fleetfoot's moods at times mirrored hers, but he was tame, more often than not, a quiet watcher whose spirit matched Théodred's quiet confidence more closely. Boromir, hardly comprehending the joke, only smiled along.

"Dealing with Gríma grates on one's nerves. Lord Boromir can attest to that," said Éohild. Théodred and Éomer glanced at him to ask if it were true, and the Gondorian captain affirmed it grimly. "It is a wonder sister manages it so well. Perhaps it was her unease Windfola understood."

The Marshals exchanged frowns. "You would be wise to keep silent, Éohild," said her brother, amusement dissipating into caution. "You know he likes to skulk around the kitchens while Uncle is in bed."

"Concocting his poisons, no doubt," muttered Éohild.

"Éohild!" scolded Théodred. Éohild pursed her lips in embarrassment. When the reprimand came from her cousin, it was serious. The prince turned to Boromir apologetically, though it was Éomer who said, "Forgive my sister. Too oft she speaks her mind in comfortable company."

Boromir shook his head, brushing it off. "I am glad to be counted in such company. Given that the last I saw of the lady was when she was inducted into your éored, Théodred."

Forgetting his cousin's transgression, the prince agreed. "You have not visited in an age, my friend, nor written."

"It has been a dutiful streak of months," explained Boromir, though he sounded remorseful. "Ah, but we have recently reclaimed Osgiliath!"

Éomer took a gulp of water and nodded. "That is good news! And yet you leave for the North?"

"A dream of Imladris and deeper matters shared by two brothers is one that cannot be overlooked. Surely there are answers in the house of Lord Elrond." Éohild's hearing perked at the mention of his quest. She had contemplated his words the night previous, wondering if her own dream held some meaning. But it said nothing specific, unlike their guest's Rivendell; again she told herself it could only be her own nerves. Boromir added, "I had hoped one of you might join me, but I see now that I must go alone."

"You needn't go alone, my friend," said Théodred, brows furrowed in thought. He had heard tell of the elves, majority of which was told by Gandalf when the wizard visited the Golden Hall in their earlier years.

Boromir's gaze brightened considerably, as though a weight was on his shoulders but no one had noticed until it was lightened. "You will join me, then?"

"I cannot," said the prince, regretfully. "I have the Hornburg to attend to. But," he cast a sidelong glance at his cousins, "I might spare you one of my men. Éomer and I cannot accompany you for our duties bind us to the Mark, but Éohild will make for a perfect companion," Théodred explained earnestly. "A Rider worthy of representing her people and a Lady of noble blood."

"She must stay here with Éowyn." Éomer's tone was almost exactly like his uncle's when the King was still sprightly – stern and adamant.

"Gamling is here," said Théodred, heedless of his cousin's apparent ire if only for the idea that had taken root in his mind. "And Éowyn needs no protection! She can ride as well as any man and wield a sword. I have seen to it."

Taking a sip of water, Éohild prepared to interject. She had never truly questioned her cousin's orders, much less her Marshal's, but this was a request she had not foreseen in the slightest. "My lord, my oath – it was to protect the Mark?"

Théodred nodded, having expected the defense, weak it was at best. His cousin had never been very talented at the art of persuasive speech. "Éohild, you can fight, ride, and you have no éored of your own to lead. Who better to send? Something tells me there is more to this dream than mere whispers of the night, and if its message is one a Man of Gondor must hear, so shall a Rider of the Mark. You told me yourself that an ominous air has pervaded your mood of late despite the lack of an apparent threat, although none of us have felt an inkling. Perhaps it is this answer you are meant to know, to allay our dread; for your worries are _ours_. And you will remain in the service of your country on this venture; do not forget it."

Éohild took a deep breath, then rose and inclined her head in acquiescence. Leaving Théodred, her friends and family was the last thing she wished to do, but he was her prince, and he had never led his men astray. "By your leave, Marshal."

"You are welcome to join me, my lady," said Boromir, having seen the earnest in Théodred's eyes. Even then, he had another friend to consider. "But that is not my decision to make."

"Théodred," Éomer shot their older cousin a meaningful expression that almost pleaded. Finally rising from the pools of deep thought, of a higher sense that felt now beyond his reach, the prince met his eyes in shock; he had forgotten to consider Éomer's stance on the subject.

Théodred sighed remorsefully for the retraction of his words rather than his sensitivity. "I – suppose I cannot send you away so carelessly. I am afraid Éomer would never forgive me." The words _not again_ hung in the air.

Éomer and Éohild met gazes, the former bearing concerned fury and the latter with regret. Théodred's words had inspired her. It was true that her recent fear was baseless, that she herself knew not what she feared, and Elves were said to know more than Men would ever dream. Watching them, Boromir remembered how sour the Third Marshal was when Éohild first earned the title of Rider. While he would gladly take up her offer, he could not judge Éomer for his brotherly devotion. It had not diminished over the years. Boromir himself had kept his opinion of the matter secret, when asked by the cousins. He found it peculiar, a woman taking life instead of giving it, but if she did her duty well and did not cry out at every drop of blood spilt, then he supposed it might begin to be acceptable.

The tension was cut by steps coming across the dining hall. It could not be a serving maiden, for they were taught to carry their feet as lightly as a breeze. Gríma Wormtongue passed the dining hall without so much as a narrowing at the corner of his eyes.

The four exchanged glances. "He must have heard us," frowned Théodred.

"He always looks upon hearing the voice of a woman, hoping it is Éowyn," agreed Éohild. Sighing, she rose from her seat and pushed away her plate. "I will go to Fleetfoot while Leófe gets the King ready."

She left without a second glance. Éomer would never agree with her departure. He had only just settled with Éohild joining their cousin's éored, but his worries were hardly her fault. She had proven herself a warrior. She was the king's niece, a Rider of the Mark, and Boromir was the Gondorian Steward's eldest son, bearing numerous titles and honors. If Théodred and Éomer could not leave their posts, it was true that she would make the next best companion. Boromir said something about a weapon of the Enemy, the light in the East that had ordered the theft of their beautiful black horses, which would change not only the fate of Gondor but of the Mark, too. So one of their own should hear Lord Elrond's answer, yet she agreed with her brother in that she would rather not leave for lands unknown in order to serve their home.

Now a great brown horse, Fleetfoot was calm when Éohild entered the stables, as was Windfola. Fleetfoot met his Rider with a friendly nod, ears tilting forward. She led them out and brushed their hair, a calming exercise for them both, for minutes before she spoke again.

"Cousin insists you would not settle this morning, my dear," said Éohild, patting Windfola. "Was something the matter?" Windfola nickered softly. Fleetfoot appeared to agree with a shake of his head. "Whatever it is, Fleetfoot and I set out to rejoin the éored. But do you think we would be put to better use discovering what is in Rivendell?"

"Lady Éohild?" a meek voice flitted in from the entrance. A young squire poised in a bow. Bertana's boy of twelve.

The Rider raised her head at the interruption. "Yes?"

"You're being summoned to the throne hall."

"I will come. Thank you, Brun." Returning them, she bade Fleetfoot and Windfola goodbye and received nudges in return. Éohild took her time making for Meduseld. If the King – or Gríma – truly wanted anything, Éomer and Théodred were certain to take the floor first. Éomer had just finished his report when she arrived, bowing as a Rider and taking her place behind the two Marshals.

"Ah, Lady Éohild." She refrained from scowling at the advisor. "There was something our King wished to ask of you."

Éohild couldn't help the slight parting of her lips in awe. The King had not addressed her since he fell ill. "Yes, my lord?" she asked, eagerly stepping forward and falling to one knee.

He did not even look at her. Gríma continued to drawl. "You are to accompany our esteemed guest to his destination. It seems he is in need of aid, and the Mark gladly gives it to her allies. At once."

Having woken and panicked while the others were at breakfast, Éowyn appeared startled, looking to the others in confusion. Éomer moved to protest, but Théodred raised a hand to stop him. Gríma smirked at the scene, and Éohild would have looked away from him in disgust had the eye contact not been a silent show of domination. Boromir cleared his throat.

"If I may," he said, "I would not ask of Lady Éohild her life, if the King believes she would lose it on such a journey. Or perhaps upon the word of his beloved son and dear nephew?"

"Nonsense," Gríma snapped, then smiled scornfully. "It is no trouble, my lord. Lady Éohild will be honored to accompany a man of such great renown."

Théodred knelt before the King on behalf of Éomer. "My lord. Father. Are you certain?"

As expected, Théoden King said nothing. Gríma smiled. "Go with the pride of the Mark," he said, waving his arm at Éohild as if it would grant him a more stately look, but his words were hollow and he looked ever the pretender.

Éohild spared not a moment before bowing. "I will do as my lord wishes. Fleetfoot and I depart with Lord Boromir."

"Oh, no." Gríma shook his head. "Take Gram."

"You cannot allow her to take a foal," Éowyn interjected. Their brother, too, worked to breathe slowly, speaking with forced diplomacy. "He will fail her in battle. He is yet to be trained and meant for a _squire_."

"I must agree," said Théodred.

Gríma sighed, kneeling before the king and muttering under his breath. Théoden nodded, mouth moving, but his words were only for his counselor. The slimy man stood, eyes landing on Éowyn before they flitted disdainfully at Éohild, tutting with disappointment. "Lady Éohild, did you not garner sufficient experience from training Fleetfoot?"

"I did, of course," Éohild was forced to answer, lest she embarrass herself. Boromir and Éowyn had resigned to watching the exchange, and she looked at them as if to ask for answers. She already knew the point to which this line of questioning would lead, but she had no idea how not to fall into the trap. "But Fleetfoot is my steed. The squire who becomes his Rider must grow with him."

"Such foolish notions," Gríma groused, as though her very words gave him a headache. "Your uncle is unhappy with your protests. You serve the kingdom on two ends: raising a great war horse and protecting a _friend _of the Mark. Will you continue to disappoint him?"

"I—no," she murmured, inclining her head. "I will take Gram on the journey, because my liege wishes it."

With nothing else to discuss, Gríma dismissed them with a pleased smirk. Éowyn accompanied Boromir to show him the equipment they prepared for his horse as their guest, but Éohild and Théodred followed Éomer, who had stalked out of Meduseld as soon as was politely able.

"Éomer," Théodred called, racing down the steps after him.

Éohild joined him. "Éomer, please."

The Third Marshal whirled at his sister when they were out of sight, far enough from the door and closer to the stables. "If you had rejected the idea sooner… When is it_ enough_, Éohild?" he asked softly. "You were not content without a sword and spear, and now you are not content in the Riddermark. Why must you always speak? Why is your defiance ever rewarded?"

"How was I to know Gríma would hear us?"

"Éomer! Blame the fruit of my thought and the prying of a snake," said the prince in defense of his youngest cousin, "Éohild was only ever obedient."

"Is she?" Éomer accused, and all three Riders knew of which event he still spoke, one whose result he would never approve of. When Éohild kept her eyes downcast, her brother relented with a glance away. "We know not where Boromir will pass to reach this Rivendell. This is too much more than a few hills and a night alone. A great man he is, but you will have neither of us at your side."

"She will be safe," insisted Théodred. "Boromir is a fierce warrior and an even better friend. I can entrust her to no better Gondorian." When Éomer only sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, the prince squeezed Éohild's shoulder. "You have quite a journey ahead of you, cousin. Go and prepare."

Éohild obeyed, hardly in the mood for another argument, though she passed by Fleetfoot to say goodbye. Windfola stomped his foot as if in protest, but her own horse only nickered, nearing his nose to her face in acceptance.

After his initial outrage at Théodred, Éomer had always blamed her for becoming a Rider, for their cousin's decision he could not control and her persistence in pursuing instatement despite his attempts at dissuasion. Éowyn sat quietly in their room when she arrived through the window, fixing the little of Éohild's clothes she could bring without hampering a young horse like Gram. That was one change of clothing. It was easy to tell her sister was upset. Her shoulders were slumped, her mouth tilted slightly downwards, and the air was thick with her low mood. Exactly like when she found out Éohild was to be trained while she would not.

Éohild's feet landed on the floor with a _thud_. "Is Lord Boromir ready?"

Éowyn looked up, hardly surprised. "Is Éomer?"

"He has only acted this way once," Éohild mumbled, referring to the day Théodred drafted her into knighthood. Her older siblings were not very different at all. "Will you talk to him, Éowyn? He loves you best. He always listens to you."

"Only because I have not defied all his wishes," scoffed Éowyn. "If brother listened to me, I would be riding with you along the Westmark."

"I do not mean _that_," Éohild muttered. Unfortunately, her height advantage over Éowyn had only lasted until a few years before her instatement as a Rider. Éowyn had caught up and towered over her again before she turned twenty. "But you do calm him down."

Éowyn shook her head, putting a hand over her sister's. "Well, you are fond of aggravating him at every turn."

"You would have, too, if given the chance!" Éohild frowned defensively.

Éowyn paused. "Do you think Théodred will permit me to join his éored in your absence?"

"I…do not know…" Éohild glanced uneasily at the door.

Éowyn removed her hand angrily. "Even you would not let me fight! Do you not understand? Gríma's purpose for allowing you this venture is to set us apart. Éomer will blame cousin for letting you go. You will be out of his way, and I will be left alone. With _him_."

"That is possible," Éohild acquiesced, though she knew Éowyn most likely had it all correctly figured out. She was the more intelligent one, after all. "But you must understand. I would want nothing more than to fight at your side" – that was a lie, she wanted Éowyn at Edoras where she was safe, no matter how loud the bells of hypocrisy chimed at that – "but someone must remain with Uncle."

"Uncle…" Éowyn sighed, conceded. Patiently, she rose. "I will speak with Éomer."

"Oh, thank you, sister!" exclaimed Éohild, kissing her on the cheek. Éowyn replied with a brief smile before setting out. Guilt assailed Éohild, telling her that Éowyn had as much right as her to go on the journey – it told her many things since they returned from those hills – but Gríma would never allow Éowyn to go. Éohild shuddered in disgust and grew in admiration for her sister. This was a rare moment when she was grateful it was Éowyn who was prettier, more delicate-looking despite her strength.

When Éowyn did not return swiftly, Éohild stepped out of her room carrying her pack for the journey. She passed by a few serving women of Meduseld, who came to ask if the news of her sudden departure were true. She saw little reason in denying it. They left her soon enough when Wynne came looking for them, especially Erna who was her best assistant, and Éohild promised her that when she returned, she would rate the pulchritude of Northern men.

Down the connecting hall to the left she spotted Gríma departing from a conversation with Boromir outside his guest chamber. The Gondorian captain watched Gríma leave with a blank expression, and Éohild approached him as soon as the King's counselor was out of sight.

"He spoke with you," said the Rider, grimacing. "Did he attempt to feed you lies—?" Éohild remembered the words of her Marshals earlier. Boromir was a great man. Perhaps he found these insults to the King's counselor petty, so she cut herself off with a cough.

"This Gríma is pleasant when he wishes. Not at all like you describe; I have met many of the sort," said Boromir, not offended by what would have been her brashness. It was somewhat objectionable, especially from a woman, but she was not the first of her kind. Though younger than Éohild, his cousin Lothíriel was a devil behind their fathers' backs; at least when she did not get her way. "No, he sought information regarding our journey. I gave him nothing; I trust the counsel of my friends."

"Thank you," said Éohild. "For propriety's sake, the Second Marshal will not tell you, but Gríma's greater knowledge only serves as a detriment to us all."

Éowyn came down the hall, shaking her head remorsefully at Éohild. She failed. Yet she beckoned to them both, so that they might prepare their horses for departure. Éomer was at the base of Meduseld with Théodred. Their Riders were waiting by the gate.

"Brother," Éohild tried again, slowly approaching Éomer.

"Perhaps you are too young to understand," he said, hands on both her shoulders. "But this journey would mean nothing if it cost your life."

"It will, if we find a way to defeat the Enemy," she murmured, but not loudly enough for him to hear. "I will return, brother," promised Éohild.

"I will pray the same," was all he could offer before drawing her into a tight embrace. Her brother's scent and the comfort of his arms woke Éohild to the reality of the distance that would soon stretch between them. Even to Fleetfoot and the women of Meduseld she had not been able to say proper goodbyes, simply an oath that she would not perish. When they parted, Éomer did not miss the gleam of tears in her eyes. Towards him they were often borne out of frustration from their arguments, but this was a nostalgia for things not even yet lost. He felt the same, for some unfathomable reason, but stood strong. "Be brave, sister. You are a Rider of the Riddermark."

Éohild nodded, blinking away her sorrow, and helped Éomer mount Firefoot with the façade of formality but for the sake of holding his hands a last time as they clasped the reins. Wishing Théodred and Boromir safe journeys and having already bidden farewell to Éowyn, the Third Marshal rode out to meet his men.

"Tell the éored I gave a tearful goodbye," Éohild asked of her cousin. "And that I cannot wait to return to the Hornburg."

"Surely. Baldred and Gárwine may return your tears. Shall I weep with them?" Pleased with the exchanged peace, Théodred wrapped his arms around her as well. "You will be missed, cousin. Stay safe." And loudly, "Protect Boromir if you can."

Sensing a lighter mood in which he could speak, Boromir chuckled. "I shall try not to be a burden."

"Just as well, Éohild, hmm?" Théodred winked, pulling away. "And farewell, dear Éowyn. To you we entrust the city," he said, planting a kiss on his cousin's forehead, and pulled himself to Brego's saddle after clasping shoulders with Boromir. "Return to us with good tidings."

"Farewell!" Éowyn and Éohild called after his retreating figure. Théodred turned and waved, granting them a laugh the sisters would wish they remembered more clearly a year from that moment.

As Boromir took to his own horse, Éowyn embraced Éohild. "There will be talk of this," she whispered, glancing briefly at the Captain.

Éohild shook her head. "Better you hear it than I, who haven't the patience to remain silent."

"If only the threat of my blade could sever the wagging tongues of women. Although men are not so different," Éowyn murmured humorously. She smiled dotingly upon her sister. "I will miss you dearly."

"You have done well without me in the past. Perhaps even better," Éohild said thoughtfully.

"It was an honor to be a guest in Meduseld, my lady," said Boromir.

"And we would have you again," replied Éowyn, politely offering him her hand.

Boromir grinned, bending to plant a kiss on her knuckles. "I await the day with ardent hope."

Éohild withheld an eyeroll at the exchange. She never performed quite as well as her brother and sister when it came to charming repartee such as this. She opted instead to climb Gram, a dark young horse who appeared excited to go on its first long journey, if he understood the task.

"Farewell, sister," bade Éowyn, returning to her place at the steps of Meduseld. "Return to us with good tidings."

"I shall," said Éohild, blowing her a kiss goodbye. Éowyn laughed only until they turned for the gates.

Boromir and Éohild rode out of Edoras at a regular pace. The latter rider glanced back just as the sun met the roof of Meduseld, and the flash of gold blinded her. When she recovered, they were already too far off to see Éowyn watching them go. Éohild bore it heavily in her heart. It made her departure feel almost final; she always looked back until Éowyn disappeared from sight, too small for her golden hair to be distinguished amidst the glory of their home. Not now.

It was fate, perhaps. Worse things would come than missing her sister yet.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 time, all right!

A big thank you readers who have faved and followed, and **UrieNanashi** and **timexgone23** especially for your reviews! We hope this chapter is just as to your tastes as the last one. Yes, Éomer mentioned in the book that Boromir passed by Rohan on his way to Rivendell, so we figured he might as well be something like old friends with the two Marshals. We can't tell if he was too prideful to actually ask for help or why he went alone in the first place - we figured it was because Gondor could spend no soldiers on a quest like his, so he thought he might find a companion in his friends in Rohan who might also want to know something that could save Men by potentially turning the tides of war.

Gríma is certainly icky. It's very fun writing him! Though it was actually a task to think of evil, underhanded things for him to say without being outright insults. Referenced from movie!Gríma, mostly, because Senna only skimmed over book!Gríma's parts. Gríma was a bit more forward in the books, wethinks. Théoden King was much kinder to him in the books too, blech. It was almost ridiculous, really, but maybe it just shows how merciful he was. You rock, Théoden. (We absolutely love him. And Bernard Hill, and Brad Dourif, who played the two perfectly! Actually, PJ was pretty spot on with the whole cast, we think. Great, now we've gone off tangent.)

So. Chapter 2 encompasses the first part of Boromir and Éohild's journey from Rohan until Tharbad. We will not go into detail for the entire journey because after Tharbad is when it pretty much goes to hell. Tolkien himself said that "the courage and hardihood required [for the journey] is not fully recognized in the narrative," and Senna didn't think she could fill that out or give that journey even a smidgen of justice so she omitted it. (You might also blame it on her laziness. Stupid, lazy Senna. -Elis)

About Boromir in this Chapter - we hope he is in character. We assumed he is more patient with women and not as brash, naturally seeing them as delicate things to be cared for, but is also capable of losing his patience. He is also friendly, kind, and all those wonderful things. Senna actually wanted to write a Boromir fanfiction because "tragic characters are sexy," but did not think she could stand Boromir's death and is unable to write an AU Boromir's survival fic in a way that will be pleasant or acceptable even to herself. So we went with Legolas. Movie!Legolas. Happy Legolas from the book is hilarious, but if you were human and weighted with the dangers of your home, you might find his constant lightheartedness slightly exasperating. Or maybe something that brightened your day. But Senna found herself feeling the former, so we went with the movie version.

In any case, this is a relatively short chapter in preparation for the next one, which is when everyone else shows up! Hooray! But that's still Chapter 3. Updates after Chapter 3 will probably be monthly. We'll try every two weeks, though remember that Senna is a slowpoke so...

For now, read on!

* * *

**The Province of Men**

**Chapter 2**

Éohild rode side-by-side with Boromir, who seemed to enjoy the view of the Riddermark. With a full stomach and a good night's rest, it was difficult not to better appreciate the sunny hills and the simultaneous rocky plains covered in shrubberies and outlying ponds to the west of the White Mountains, with glimmering streams that eventually crossed into the Entwash.

His dark hair and large build set a great contrast between Boromir and the men Éohild had grown up with. He was perhaps the most broad-shouldered man she had ever seen. Though she did not see many strangers, save for Gandalf when he visited the Mark in her childhood. Even the travelers who came to Edoras were of her people, fair-haired and lean. Éohild knew little of the Captain-General save that even her Uncle in his better days greatly respected him, and that his sense of humor formed between him and Théodred and Éomer a great friendship.

"It is a brilliant view," Éohild could not help but say when hours had passed since their departure. It was a folly of hers, perhaps, that though she was lesser in skill when it came to speech compared to her siblings, it was she who preferred conversation to silence the most. Members of Théodred's éored quipped, sometimes at their own risk, that it was simply because she was a woman.

Boromir jerked as though shocked to see her beside him, and nodded with a smile before it faltered, slightly. "I am loath to take you from it."

Éohild shook her head. "I wished to go. And," she added, "I have always wanted to see an Elf. Not – not that it is the reason I left. I would never leave my sister behind if I did not think it for the good of the Riddermark."

Boromir breathed in amusement. "I would not have you explain yourself to me, my lady. I am grateful for a companion. And one of the prince's éored at that!"

Éohild found here that she liked Boromir of Gondor, despite how after this he did not attempt conversation in the days they spent crossing the Mark except during mealtimes, when he asked if she would like some water and she said no, thank you, I have my own. It was enough that he humored her when she wished it.

Evenings before they reached the border of the Mark at Isen, the two were camped beneath a shade of trees. Only the moonlight and a small fire Boromir was very adept at sparking lit the night, and Éohild was just about ready to sleep. But something had been eating at her since their last conversation, and she could not sleep until she sat upright and stared at him from across the fire.

Boromir noticed immediately. He ceased honing his sword and asked, "Is something amiss, my lady?"

"Where are we going, Lord Boromir?"

Sheathing his sword, the man answered, "Lore tells us that Rivendell is to the North."

"Yes, to the North. Where in the North?"

Boromir paused, looking distantly into the fire, inwardly debating what to tell her. "It was all the greatest lore masters of Gondor could tell me. Rivendell is known only for accepting travelers with enough fortune to stumble upon it."

Éohild took a deep breath, attempting to contain her incredulous expression. "And what do you take of your fortune, my lord? Would you stake on it a journey long past the lands of your home?"

Boromir did not miss the hostility in her tone. Meeting her eyes, he nodded resolutely. "For Gondor, I would. I will not begrudge your return home."

"No," Éohild relented. "I did not mean to offend. Fortune or no, I will go for the Mark."

"And so I count my fortune all the greater," said Boromir, smiling lightly. Éohild started, as if caught in a trap, but only laughed.

"Rest," said Boromir. "Our journey will be long and difficult."

Éohild sighed, lying on her back. "Such is a journey with no itinerary."

Boromir snorted and deflected easily, "Such is a quest, as in the legends of old."

At that, a warmth filled Éohild's heart. The way he worded it, even expressed it, pandered to the child that still lived within, the one that once sought glory at the risk of her own life. She knew better now, but the child cried out in joy as she once had on the steps of Meduseld. Attempts to subdue her excited flush ceased; it was evening, at any rate, and he would not see it. Creeping closer to the fire, Éohild let out a yawn and closed her eyes. "Indeed."

* * *

The Fords of Isen met them some mornings later. Éohild had never been one to take note of time and so had lost count of days. From where they stood at the riverbank, Éohild could see the black tower of Orthanc rise behind the mountains to the northeast. Saruman the Wizard was said to dwell there, but she had never seen him in all her twenty-one years. He did not descend the fortress at Isengard Vale, and she never thought to ask Gandalf in his visits. In fact she had never spoken to Gandalf Greyhame, only stood behind pillars and watched him with cautious interest. Wizards had scared her more easily than the thought of Orcs back then. She did not understand their purpose and knew not what to think of them; not to mention Éomer had told her as a child that if she misbehaved, one might turn her into something that looked like Gríma, better though the man was then. Éohild told herself now that it was impossible, but she would rather not discover the truth.

The recent rains forced upon Isen an unforgiving current, but horses were steely creatures and cut across the river without so much as a nicker of complaint. At this, Éohild proudly brushed Gram's mane. She had not done much in the way of training him; perhaps the presence of Boromir's warbred horse had forced the young one to understand his duty quickly. To his Rider's own relief, no Dunlendings intercepted their crossing.

In the time between their departure from Rohan and their arrival at the ruins of Enedwaith, Boromir grew comfortable making remarks on the views they encountered despite their pretty redundancy. Éohild understood now how he could have become such great friends with her cousin and her brother. The Gondorian was serious in his intent to go to Imladris for his people, as was Théodred, but just like the prince he was charming and easygoing when in safe company. Yet she discovered as they continued that his humor stemmed closer to Éomer's; one that ventured with a quip, taunted confidently rather than politely reacting to a humorous situation.

Enedwaith was a hilly plain to the west of the Misty Mountains with an awning of rocks, shrubs, and traces of what may have once been a forest. Some trees still rose in copses. There was little vegetation, as the area they passed was wholly uninhabited at present, though Boromir insisted that people of the kingdom of the North, Arnor, once dwelled there.

Storm clouds drew over the region on their third day within it and grew darker with the appearance of a black fog that moved toward them with an alarming swiftness. Boromir had seen it on a slow trot after lunchtime, when he turned to Éohild with a question that just as swiftly fell from his mind. He caught the black figure from the corner of his eye.

"What is that?"

As soon as he asked, the fog swept down, breaking the tranquility that had protected them since their journey began with a broken, croaking noise.

"Large crows – known as crebain," Éohild gasped, urging Gram forward, but the black birds were already above them. The horse cried out, ignorant of Éohild's orders to stop galloping and flailing about in an attempt to flee the nasty, persistent creatures. One crow dove low enough to nip at Éohild's shoulder, trying to tear at the fold of her tunic, and another pulled at her hair as it flew by. Swatting her left hand around, she thought she could hear Boromir having the same trouble, though she could not be certain over the noise and her murky vision, canopied by the terrible fowl. It must have been minutes before they finally soared higher, then circled. Éohild drew one of her swords, but the band simply returned whence they came.

Boromir had fared better, escaping with only a head of tousled hair. When he was certain the crows were gone and Éohild was relatively unscathed, he asked, "Are you constantly afflicted by those vermin in Rohan?"

"No," she frowned, patting down her hair and tunic in embarrassment. They had attacked her arm as well, perhaps attracted to the old wound hidden beneath the leather. "I do not understand why they came to us. I was told they kept east of here, in Dunland. They fly not far from their home, but – I have never heard of attacks."

"An ill omen, perhaps?"

Éohild shuddered, rubbing at her shoulder. Those birds were bizarre. And purposeless, it seemed. "Let us not speak ill our fortune," she pleaded. "We have ways to travel yet. How far north did your lore master say was Imladris?"

"Far north, to the west of the Misty Mountains," replied Boromir. He was beginning to grow accustomed to Éohild's unsatisfied sighs. He was certain she had no idea she released them at all, and figured that she focused her energies more on battle than ceremony. "Do not lose hope."

"I will not," swore Éohild, settling back with Gram into a less cautious gait. She continued to look around for signs of crows, but nothing else came that day. "When you mentioned my home, I thought of my brother and sister. Éomer must still be angry, but Éowyn – I know my departure upset her. It pains me all the more that she understands: one of us must remain with Uncle. It does not escape me that she wields a longsword better, no matter if I am quicker on my feet. But," she laughed flippantly, "I wish not to weight you with my troubles. Surely you would not understand. You _are_ the greatest Captain Gondor has seen in years."

"Not so," Boromir offered, "I understand completely. Faramir is the calmer one; perhaps the greater tactician. Had he come in my place, he would have no doubt succeeded in persuading Éomer to let you join him without bitterness. Yet our father – he chose me."

Éohild smiled dolefully. "Then your brother and I would grieve together. I know what it means to live in the shadow of another."

"I do not think that. If any of you, it is Lady Éowyn who lives in the shadow of her brother and sister, both Riders of Rohan. As father places Faramir in mine, though I do not wish it."

Éohild watched Boromir thoughtfully. She had only ever considered Éowyn's beauty; that for all the bravery she possessed, though it was she who bore the pride of the Mark with the livery of their people, she could not measure up to her elder sister when it came to pleasantries and the breathtaking vision that enraptured men when they looked upon her. "That is a new perspective."

Boromir shrugged, appearing solemn for a moment. His eyebrows furrowed in thought, and then he grinned. "Would it not be interesting, if they met?"

"Who?"

"Lady Éowyn and my brother. He is unknown to you?"

"We have never met," replied Éohild. "Only you have ever come to the Mark."

"Hmm. Faramir would find a better friend in Théodred, I think. But," said Boromir, tapping his horse reins, "Love will surely benefit them both."

"You speak of love as though it is a distraction."

"Yes…and no. A distraction, perhaps, in that possessing a love shared between those betrothed gives one a sense of belonging. They will have something that is theirs alone, you see? As you and Éomer have the Riders, and Captainship of the White Tower is mine. But more than that, it is empowering. Those with love find death an even more difficult road. Their lives take on a profound significance."

Éohild paused. She never expected Boromir, of all men, of all people, to speak of these things. "And what about us: those without such love?"

Easily, Boromir answered, "Family. And friendship. Their love is chief among the hearts of men, but it is not the only love."

Éohild nodded in approval. "That is a nice thought."

Finally, Boromir's sagely countenance broke in favor of a loud guffaw. "Look at us! Planning a wedding without the consent of our siblings, who know nothing of each other. We are as eager serving women!"

"Would that we had earlier known it could be such fun," giggled Éohild.

"When we return home," said Boromir, after they shared another bout of laughter, "let us bring them together. That is something to look forward to, don't you think?"

"Indeed."

* * *

Boromir and Éohild found shelter those days behind the taller hills of Enedwaith. One evening, dinner had long been finished and the two found solace in the balefire before them. To the west they had seen marshlands spotted with trees whose short branches and fuzzy leaves drew praises to the sky, but it was the worsening weather, Boromir was certain, which caused the cold breezes that did not abate as the evening came. Éohild wondered if she had been right to ask Boromir not to speak of ill omens. It was summer, after all, yet rain threatened to pour, and had a few days earlier. Even then, the clouds had not been so dark.

Éohild had reached over to throw a blanket over Gram when Boromir put out their fire. Frowning at him, she asked, "What are you doing?"

Boromir put a finger to his lips. "I hear others in the distance."

Éohild rose abruptly. "I will go."

Boromir rushed to stop her. "I could not send you into danger, my lady."

"My lord, I am also a Rider. The Second Marshal sends me with a small band ahead of raids to watch enemy encampments, especially since Orc attacks have increased this past month."

Releasing her, Boromir raised his hands in surrender. "Very well."

Éohild lay on her stomach when she reached the top of the hill. The clouds parted momentarily, and the moon revealed to her shadows moving about on the next hill over, disfigured with crude-looking armor. The camp was all too familiar. Skidding back down, Éohild crept beside Gram and snatched back the blanket in order to pack it. As though he understood the urgency despite his youth, the horse gave only the slightest grunt.

"Orcs," she explained to Boromir, who moved very slowly and silently all of a sudden. "I can see no other reason why they would stop for camp save that they know of our presence."

"How many?" he whispered.

"I counted eleven," she answered. "Peculiar. It is rare to find so little a force, unless they are stragglers, and we have not seen signs of recent battle. Something is amiss. Or they are—"

Éohild stopped when Boromir reached over to her waist. She jerked sideways to gingerly avoid him, but he had intended for her sheathe and so took a small dagger. Éohild heard a dying croak before she knew to look. An Orc scout, up above her on the hill, the encampment's twelfth member.

"We must leave. Now," declared Boromir, packing as quickly as he could. Éohild agreed, removing the dagger from the Orc's head before stabbing it into its heart again for good measure. There were times when one fatal wound was not enough. It was the same dagger from her childhood, polished and maintained for its sentimental value. All these years and it still managed to save her life.

Mounting his horse, Boromir surveyed the rest of the campsite to ensure nothing was left. "I did not anticipate that our fortune would dissipate so quickly."

"Do not lose hope," repeated Éohild, and looked back to the top of the hill. No Orcs yet, but they would soon follow, if their intention was truly the four of them.

They continued through the hills, riding as swiftly as they were able, resting only when completely necessary. This went on for days, perhaps weeks, until it became habit, racing toward that enigmatic North. Éohild never asked the true numbers of Boromir for she took solace in being able to fool herself into thinking that perhaps it had only been days since she last saw her home.

On their first few she had still known by heart the scent of Wynne's kitchen, could still hear the clang of steel amidst the laughter of her friends in the Hornburg despite the ever-looming thought of Orc attacks. She had memorized then the touch of Fleetfoot's shining mane as her fingers combed through its knots and the exasperated visage of her brother and sister when they met. Now all she could dredge from her heart were memories that gave nothing she had ever known justice, and if they were ever truly recaptured, they slipped from her before she knew she had them.

There came a day when they rode until sunrise, but their horses began to slow once noon passed. The Captain knew his well and informed Éohild, regretfully, that he must rest or collapse completely. Éohild understood that Gondorian horses were not like those from the Mark and agreed. Gram's fatigue was growing as well; he was only too prideful to reveal it, save for the occasional lags in his gait. They rested among the trees, behind another hill, at the top of which she could see something shimmer in the far distance despite the clouds.

Éohild accepted the water her companion offered when she sat next to him. "What is that river crawling into the horizon?" she asked, though she did not expect an answer. The area was suddenly beset by a thick white mist.

"It must be the Gwathló. Or Greyflood," he answered. "A bridge over the river was once used to travel over it between the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, and past it the city of Tharbad, but little is known of what became of it when we lost contact with the North."

"Let us hope this bridge still stands," murmured Éohild. "Or if in decay, that it cracks under the weight of those in our tracks."

Evening came after what felt to Éohild like leagues of travel, though it was doubtful with their pace slowed. Because they were being trailed, Boromir no longer set bonfires. Instead, under the shadow of a great tree against the precipice of another hill, they laid as close to each other as was appropriate between the resting figures of both their horses, who had already grown accustomed to sleeping lying down with the arrangement.

Neither Éohild nor Boromir could sleep after they had woken too early the following morning, their mounts still slumbering. The former lay in a supine position, eyes resigned to the sky. No moon tonight, though it was common of late. When they were children and Éomer still tried to rationalize his becoming a Rider, he said that they would never be too far apart.

If anything, they peered up at one moon, and that shortened the distance between them by more leagues she could ever imagine. Now she was farther from him than she had ever been in her life. For the Mark, she reminded herself. It was why she had agreed to leave, bar her own curiosity.

"Should it rain, we must find shelter," she muttered, eyes narrowing at Boromir for a moment. Éohild knew not if he finally slept. "A coppice is preferable. A grove would be a gift. We were fortunate enough to find this tree."

He had not, despite turning his back on her for the sake of decorum. Rising, Boromir glanced to his left. "Indeed. These Orcs seem to have moved during the day, or they could not have followed us from Rohan. Unless…they hailed from the Misty Mountains."

"I have not heard of Orcs in the Misty Mountains – or perhaps I have not heard much of the Misty Mountains at all. But if they did travel in the day, what more when the sky is blanketed in darkness?"

Boromir frowned. "You wish to set out? But the Gwathló will flood, surely, if it rains now. Let us wait for the rain to pass and then go forward."

"The Orcs have no mounts. If Gwathló floods, the river will take them away."

"The Isen did not stop them." Boromir's voice grew firmer. "What more Tharbad, no matter the flood? I will not risk our lives for uncertainty. If we must face them in battle, we do so on less precarious grounds."

He stared her down as he spoke, eyebrows furrowed, almost frowning. When the familiar expression registered, accompanied by slight frustration on Éohild's part, she realized that while Boromir was a dignified nobleman, he was also the famed Captain-General of Gondor, a leader of armies. He gave her the same feeling as did Théodred in the rare moments when she came up against him in argument, no matter how trivial – one that told her she could never win.

"If you think it best," murmured Éohild, deferring to him with a nod. She waited for the tension to clear, his forehead to smoothen before asking, "What do you expect they will tell us in Rivendell? What is this weapon you spoke of?"

The air was even thicker than before. He looked at her again, his stare not one meant to coerce but to scrutinize. Caution.

"Lord Boromir?" she asked, seconds later.

Finally, he seemed to have come to a decision. His shoulders slackened when he whispered, as if any louder and nightmares would spring to life all around them, "My father believes it is a weapon of the Enemy. In the dream, a voice said, _For Isildur's Bane shall waken.._. You know the story, do you not?"

Éohild jerked up. "You mean to say…? Yes. We have no lore masters in the Riddermark, but the legend of Isildur has been passed down."

Boromir sat back and nodded. "With it, we can drive back Mordor's forces."

"This is wonderful news!" exclaimed Éohild, squeezing Boromir's arm. "But how did it come to the Elves? And will they allow Men to wield it again? After all—"

"We Men are the first line against Mordor," was Boromir's defense. "It is only right that we wield it. These Elves hardly partake of the battle against Sauron. Not since centuries ago."

"This is true," agreed Éohild. A light drizzle started briefly before the downpour set in, the torrent of rain obscuring the rest of the Enedwaith beyond their tree. It was chilly, but there was a certain stillness to the moment. The rising scent of wet earth, the sound of nothing but the barrage of raindrops against the hills – these were natural things. Not like war, or Orcs. "To have days of peace…"

Boromir smiled slightly at the girl beside him and wondered when he last saw a soldier appear so carefree. It must have been half an hour before he asked, "Do you not sue for it? Peace?"

"I do!" Éohild sounded surprised at his question. It was easy to lose oneself in such a silence between them. She liked that. "It is why we fight. I was thinking of Meduseld in its former glory; my Uncle before illness struck him and our lands."

"I think the same of the White City," replied Boromir. The rain was letting up. "And Osgiliath – once we win this war, we will rebuild it. I am no architect, but it shall become the jewel it once was. After much restoration to the lower levels of Minas Tirith."

Éohild looked up at Boromir. Something in his tone gave her hope unlike that which she had ever known since her Uncle fell ill. She only realized then how much that part of her who believed things would turn out right had dwindled to the point of near nonexistence, even with Éowyn's comforting words and the Marshals' leadership.

"I want our people to have the freedom to traverse the Mark without the threat of Orcs," she allowed herself to speak of her own hopes. "Too frequently have our Riders only barely rescued travelers between villages from attacks."

"The Orcs are a problem," Boromir grunted. "The monsters breed like insects."

"Their numbers are endless," agreed Éohild. And then it struck her like lightning. "The Orcs!"

Éohild scrambled to her feet and bolted up the hill. Beneath the parting clouds and the coming dawn, their hunters marched forward relentlessly. She nearly tumbled down the hill in her hurry to get down. "They're gaining on us!"

Boromir roused the horses and led them out to ride while Éohild packed their necessities. With their companions fully recuperated, Éohild deemed them prepared for another sprint. They tore through the marshes after only hours. Despite the rain that had passed, the area surrounding the river Gwathló remained foggy. The air made them shiver, the ground was wet, the grass tall, and the bridge crossing to Tharbad was hardly visible. The river itself, though shallow, like Isen began to run faster.

Boromir found the beginnings of the bridge, but his horse was hardly anxious to urge them forward. Their pace slowed to a mere trot in their near-blindness, and Éohild complied amicably for what seemed like hours until a great white bird flew right across Gram, causing the steed to whinny in irritation. The fowl's black legs were tucked into its body, feathers as soft as storm clouds ruffling along the breeze.

"What was that bird, my lord?" she called out to Boromir. She could hardly see him in the white mist and followed the retreating tail of his tall mount.

"What bird?" he asked. "I saw none."

There it was again. Pure magnolia white, the slender-necked bird with long, graceful wings spread out in a glide, making its orange beak all the more vivid in her mind. Éohild could swear its beady dark eyes glinted at her purposefully in the moment that it passed even more closely over Windfola's mane.

"It must be a swan," said Boromir, after hearing her describe it. "My father said they were once known to flock here. I did not think it would remain true."

"Oh." Éohild unknowingly turned Gram in the direction of the bird that was now clear to her despite the fog. It seemed to slow as she followed it back across the bridge.

"Lady Éohild?" came Boromir's chuckle. "Has my Gondorian horse truly defeated your mearas so easily?"

Gram made an angry sound with his lips in defense, but his rider was mesmerized by the way the swan flapped its wings ahead of her, an invitation of some sort to a memory too far into the clouds to reach. "While he will one day be glorious, Gram is no mearas. Only Kings are permitted to bridle them, and only if they are worthy," said Éohild absentmindedly, at least until it clicked in her mind. "Those birds—I saw them, when I cried across the river!"

Misunderstanding her words, her older companion laughed. "Wept, milady? For swans?" He paused. "Wait. Swans are the—" Boromir and his horse cried out painfully as the sound of heavy objects splashing into the river current reached her ears.

"Lord Boromir!" gasped Éohild. Gram reared back and turned in their initial direction. "Are you all right? Did you…?"

"The bridge is incomplete!" he shouted. More things fell into the water, but she was only too glad to hear his voice above the bridge. When his horse trotted into view, they both sighed in relief. "We must turn back and ford the river," decided Boromir.

The Orcs caught up with them as soon as they stepped off the bridge, blocking their way back to the marshes. Up close, the two Men saw that these Orcs differed from one another in height. Most of them were of the usual stature, but a few were tall, some long-haired with slant eyes. White markings were stamped on their heads like a hand, though she did not recognize it. Then again, it hardly mattered. They all snickered amongst themselves before the tallest one with sharper teeth than the rest drew his weapon and cleaved it into the ground. "Finally. We've been tracking this meat for days!"

"This task is going to be _tasty_," grinned a shorter Orc.

Éohild wondered if food and destruction were all they ever really thought of. Boromir had other things in mind – he charged forward, startling the Orcs. Éohild and Gram followed swiftly enough to take advantage of their surprise and followed their companion down to the river.

"Lord Boromir, we may yet avoid battle if we cross, now!"

"We must be quick," was his reply. Éohild tossed a stick she had picked up along the way into the water, waiting for it to show them the safest passage along the way, covered in debris, ruins, and tall grass, only to watch it disappear into the fog.

"This is terrible," she told him, ducking her head near a fearful Gram's as arrows fired past them. "I cannot determine where to cross! Just go!"

"No, we can take them," Boromir insisted, drawing his blade, but his horse had already obeyed their female companion, who had fed him more lovingly than his master, and whose young steed he rather liked.

The Orcs were fast, reaching them just as Boromir let out a noise in frustration. His horse had gotten caught in a suction hole not far from the embankment. Boromir left him to fend off the monsters while Éohild leapt away from Gram to guide the other horse to safety. The current pushed against her knees, almost roaring, but it could just as well have been the Orcs' battle-shrieks. When Boromir's friend was free, the Captain himself had already taken out four of them and was taking on another two.

But their majority did not bear down on Boromir; instead, they cornered Gram, who reared back in an attempt to scare them off and prepare to trample them. These Orcs were smarter, however; much fiercer than those they faced so far. They only laughed and drew blood from his legs. Darting to her friend's defense, Éohild hacked one in the back with her longsword – she still fought better with shorter blades, but her left arm had only just healed – and kicked another in the stomach. Snarling, they began to tilt their attention towards her. One swung his blade at her feet. She leapt sideward, reaching to swat Gram's rear.

"Go!" yelled Éohild, untying her pack from him quickly. "Flee to safety! Go!"

Boromir's horse followed Gram as he galloped into obscurity. They looked back as they left, but Éohild and Boromir were already too caught up in battle to ask them to return. Boromir beheaded an Orc with a deft diagonal slice upward and Éohild was pushing back the sword of one attempting to cut out her face. From the corner of her eye, she saw an Orc making its way to her, sword raised. Giving the last of her energy repelling him to a final shove, she ducked and hacked off the arm of the Orc to her side. Only the one before her had not turned away. Distracted, she turned for Boromir, until it managed to reach far enough to slice a small of her left arm open.

Éohild let out a half-grunt, half-scream about her old wound, lest it fester. Eyes widening in her direction, Boromir finished his own opponent with a sword in the heart, pulled out, and bashed his shield into the Orc's head. While it recovered, Éohild noted painfully that her companion was fond of decapitating his enemies.

It was a while before it registered that the battle was over. Boromir's horse had dropped his rider's pack in his earlier leap towards the river. Éohild threw the bag aside to keep it safe from their attackers before returning to battle, attempting to remember Erkenbrand's training for that pitiful left arm of hers. It came in bits and mostly at the last minute, when she remembered to duck her arm and thrust her blade sideways while Boromir's head was bashed with a shield. She cringed for him though he kept on, wobbling only for a moment. It inspired her to assure that the rest of their enemies were defeated. When Boromir himself was certain, kicking them on their backs to check for breathing, he whistled ceaselessly.

Éohild did the same. When the horses did not return, she remembered her new wound from the biting sting on her arm. She washed up at the river, stitching herself together, but it did not wash away the stink. Neither could she move her left arm without wincing, at least inwardly, again. It had only just recovered and now this. The wound had not reopened for the Orc had struck a higher area of her arm.

"Are you all right?" asked Boromir, approaching her kneeling figure by the bank. The mist persisted. "Where have the horses gone?"

"They're…gone," muttered Éohild.

Boromir quirked an eyebrow. "Can you not whistle for yours to return? Mine will not…"

"I told Gram to flee to safety. They seemed to target him for some reason," Éohild explained. "I was certain he would die, child that he is. I thought…we might take your horse for the rest of the journey, since we'll have managed to kill the Orcs. I did not think he would follow Gram."

"What?" Boromir glared at nothing to the right, attempting to hide his growing frustration. "And we cannot reach them again?"

Éohild lowered her head. "Not at the speed they left. Forgive me."

Boromir ran a hand through his hair and let it stay there, until he scratched his head. "Then we have lost them. Crossing lands uncharted for centuries will be all the more difficult."

"They were attacking Gram. I couldn't let him come to harm!"

"And so you let them loose!"

Éohild breathed sharply, opening her mouth to retort – if she could only find one suitable enough. She lowered her eyes in resignation. "I panicked. I am sorry."

Boromir said nothing. When Éohild was finished with her bandages, they set foot into the river. It was indeed more difficult than they imagined without horses, even with Gwathló much shallower than Isen. The shorter one, Éohild nearly got caught in the current a few times while it almost seemed that Boromir, much heavier even with their packs, attracted suction holes.

They crossed eventually, when a swan nearly toppled into Boromir so that he fell to his left, tossed by the current, and found shallow ground and safer passage. Éohild only marveled at the fowl to herself so as not to risk Boromir's ire again. Given how he refused to spare her a glance, she knew he would not have liked to hear even a whisper from her. She knew because Éomer was this way and Théodred had said they shared great similarities.

When they climbed the opposite bank, the two walked along swamps far until nightfall, when they found enough scattered trees to make a small wood. Boromir did not want to lose any more time than he already knew they would – for this reason, they did not stop at the ruined city of Tharbad. Although it no longer rained, Éohild was thankful for the trees. She didn't want to cross any more soggy marshes and empty plains without Gram or any kind of horse. At least not while her only companion left remained frustrated with her.

By dinnertime, when they stopped under a great crack willow, Boromir had calmed himself regarding losing the horses. He resolved to be more cautious around Éohild when horses were concerned – he supposed he should not have been so surprised to realize that she treated them almost like people – but it would not do to treat her so coldly.

There would be greater challenges along the way, and Éohild carried her own weight well enough when there were no horses involved. And it was wrong to break bread with someone without patching up an argument. Or in their case, whatever manner of wild beast they managed to slay for meals.

He built a fire again, when he deemed it safe enough. Éohild remained close to him for warmth, looking up at him a few times like she was waiting for him to push her away like an irritating child. Boromir was reminded of Faramir trying not to show how it pained him to hear their father's dagger-sharp criticisms.

"Why would those Orcs have followed us so far across the land?" asked Boromir, handing her a torn piece of meat.

Éohild took a moment to recover from the realization that he was speaking with her again and shook her head. "I cannot say. Perhaps we spurred their curiosity as we forded Isen. They did call us…a task. They could have followed you from Mordor. With only one human companion, they must have thought you vulnerable enough."

"No…" Boromir wanted to believe it - he was the Captain-General of Gondor, after all, and Éohild, though a sister-daughter of the King of Rohan, held no such station. But something about the way the Orcs had headed for her steed as soon as they saw him was suspect. "I - it is very bizarre - but I was little more than a distraction. They aimed for Gram, first—and you, when you came to view."

"You think Gram and I were their targets?" asked Éohild, doubtfully, and sighed. "We can never be certain now. But that those Orcs could stand traveling in the day – the sky was dark, of course, but…"

"And you noticed, did you not, the mark on their foreheads?"

"You speak of that white hand?" Éohild pondered it, but shrugged. "No Orcs I have slain ever bore such markings. Perhaps they came from the mountains? But no, we saw them at southern Enedwaith, after Isen..."

Boromir nodded. It bothered him that they could not resolve the matter of their hunters' origins, but the symbol of the white hand was lost on him as well. "These are strange times, indeed."

Éohild finished her meal enthusiastically now that she was forgiven. Spreading out their blankets, she lay down and beamed when she saw the stars and the full moon in the corner of her vision between sparse clouds. Éomer and Éowyn saw this night sky. Théodred and their éored, too, and the rest of Edoras. She missed her Fleetfoot dearly, and prayed Boromir's horse and poor Gram returned there safely.

"I hope," she yawned, starting to drift off, "we reach Rivendell in a fortnight or so. Just further North…"

"Would it not be better to follow the mountains north?" asked Boromir, toying with the thought. He would feel more certain of the way if they did.

"_No_," Éohild nearly gasped. "The Dunlendings live in those mountains. They do not take to us, descendants of the Éothéod. Barbarians, and there are many. They will not be as easily defeated as Orcs."

Boromir chuckled. "I have heard of the Dunlendings. I am certain we are past their territory."

"Perhaps," huffed Éohild. "But the Misty Mountains are dangerous. The little I have heard of it – they say the mountains there have their own will. And not any which are friendly to Men."

"Very well," said Boromir, giving it to her only because what used to be the North-South Road did not follow through to the mountains immediately. He was likewise amused by this unguarded display of character. It would be the first of many. "Good night, Lady Éohild."

Éohild turned on her side and smiled up at him. "Good night, Lord Boromir."


	4. Chapter 3

As promised, Rivendell!

Unfortunately, this is probably the last time we'll be updating this week. Or for the next two weeks, as Senna is going to be busy and Elis will be out of town and, so, cannot edit. So put this on your Follow list, people! (Why? Because.)

Thanks again muchly to those who Followed and Faved and to dear **Guest** who reviewed! We are always happy to hear you like the story.

(We're lookin' at you, secret readers! It would be nice to hear about what you like or hate about the story. But no pressure. (Yes, there is. (Nope!)))

The pacing will pick up and may be a bit off, unfortunately, as we get into the movie. Senna tried to add more scenes, but not too many relationships can be cultivated right at the start. It's the time for first impressions and getting a feel for each other.

Inevitable to add the Council of Elrond scene. In Senna's case, anyway. She is not very original in this matter and did not change much of the wording; only added Éohild's perspective, actions, and consequences. Because it is about her development throughout the War (and because Senna is a _lazy hobo_), as you have already seen, this will be mostly in the limited 3rd person POV. It will sometimes shift to the thoughts and opinions of the rest of the Company or other characters, but usually those only known by Éohild. There will be times, of course, when secret thoughts of other characters are mentioned, but not so much. Just for your information.

We hope the canon characters are, well, in-character. We tried not to make the Hobbits _too _silly, but at this point they still are pretty silly and lighthearted (with respect to their movie selves). We only hope they are just right, or almost there.

Chapter 3, GO!

* * *

**The Province of Men**

**Chapter 3**

Their travels did not end in a fortnight, however, but nearly four times that. Éohild estimated a hundred days in total, and just when she laughed to say she had exaggerated and that in truth she never tried to count, Boromir said he had counted more for his journey to Rohan. The North-South Road of old had been long deserted, and past the marshes, forests and causeways were more hills canopied with tall, unkempt grass. Though there were no more Orc encounters for the rest of their trip, the pair contended with wild animals and strays no longer accustomed to the presence of Men.

Some scampered off as soon as Boromir brandished his blade and made an example of their companions, but the great pack of wild dogs, among other perils, was particularly daring. One of them managed to sink its teeth into Boromir's leg and another in Éohild's left arm at a time when she finally recovered, again. They stopped, then, after clearing the surrounding area of any more that might come.

It was in this stretch of time when Boromir and Éohild commiserated and grew in friendship. Not for the sake of the common love they held for Théodred and Éomer but for the trials they faced and survived, together, out of which two strangers may only emerge with an unbreakable bond.

This friendship did not, of course, stop them from debating which way to go on occasion. Éohild had little love for mountains and constantly pointed to a faraway structure on the crest of a tall hill, but Boromir grew tired of climbing hills, up and down. His friend soon found that he was irrefutable when it came to directions. It became his decision, as most of their arguments ended, to follow the Bruinen when the river forked into it and Hoarwell. The Bruinen was a river that flowed into a thick, true wood, the likes of which Éohild had never seen.

Despite the trees, the soft sunlight of dawn broke into the forest and formed dancing shadows with the leaves and branches upon the ground and the river. For sustenance, Éohild picked fruit from low-bent, flowering trees, for while she heard birds and different sorts of vermin around them, neither she nor Boromir could ever spot one they might hunt.

It was comfortable enough to sleep on, at least. The forest floor was carpeted with leaves of different colors and crunched beneath their feet as they walked – which might have explained their dwindling ability to hunt – and might have been mistaken for blankets for how soft they were.

The deeper they marched into the forest, the more Éohild thought that something was _wrong_. Simply off. Something told her she should be wary. But the more suspicious she felt, the more relaxed she became, and to struggle felt almost futile.

Boromir had noticed the simultaneous expressions of caution and relaxation on his friend's face and was beginning to grow in worry. It slipped away as soon as he felt it, but still he asked, "Is something the matter, Éohild? The forest is beautiful, is it not? Can you hear it in the distance – a waterfall?"

"No," she said, shaking her head languidly. "I feel as though…we have gone around in circles…for days…"

"No," replied Boromir, smiling. "No, not at all. Perhaps you feel this way because you are not accustomed to walking in forests? And Ithilien is nowhere nearly as beautiful as this wood. Be at peace, Éohild…"

Éohild thought it an odd thing to pass his lips – _be at peace_, but Boromir was right. There could be nothing wrong in a forest as beautiful as this. War could not taint this place. Neither could wild beasts. She herself wanted to drop her belt sheathe and sit by the river, making necklaces out of the few flowers that littered the ground.

Suddenly, her vision seemed clearer. The waterfall was loud in her ears too, very close, and leaves were sparse on the green grass. Éohild's wide eyes immediately turned to Boromir, who nodded in comprehension. "Let us follow the sound."

Éohild took a whiff of the river, which had become so much more real after that one moment, and chuckled almost dreamily. She felt like jumping, screaming, doing anything wild just to revel in her freedom of the complacency from which she had broken. "A bath sounds very appealing."

"Truly a woman, Éohild," Boromir tutted. "Thinking of hygiene before a mission!"

"Not hygiene," she joined his mirth, "but your fortune, Boromir!"

"And your lack of it," Boromir grinned. "Had you not sent away the horses, we may have gone a very different way. We may never have tread into this forest. They say Imladris is close to a waterfall."

Éohild gave a whoop, bumping arms with Boromir. "Let it not be said that my misfortune did not bring joy to the renowned Captain of Gondor!"

Finally, after several minutes of almost giddy laughter and a steep decline in the forest, Boromir and Éohild found the archway leading to Rivendell. It was a great connection of beautiful homes interspersed with trees and gardens built along the precipice of the mountainside, bursting with high waterfalls. Éohild thought aloud that she might be dreaming until Boromir humored her and painfully pinched her side.

"Ow! You are just like Théodred," she grumbled, rubbing her arm. "I never realized we were so close to the mountain face."

"It must have been an enchantment clouding our thoughts," said Boromir, still chuckling slightly. He fell silent at the beauty that surrounded them. He was certain he saw a multitude of rainbows over the falls, but was distracted by the colors of the leaves that once lay at their feet on the trees lining their path to the bridge sitting over the river to the Last Homely House.

Éohild could not believe the buildings were crafted out of wood. Branches woven into roofs and railings looked instead like marble splashed in milk and caramel, and the serenity that enveloped the place coupled with the early morning sun rising beyond the river and the mountains gave it a glow even Meduseld could never imitate.

Only the sight of the Elves released Éohild from her trance. Whether fair or dark-haired, their slender gracefulness and angular features gave to them beauty she could express as nothing but otherworldly.

They greeted the pair at the bridge and led them across, informing them that it was indeed something of an enchantment to ward off those with wary or unkind intentions, for, said one, "Events have transpired overnight which require such care." Éohild must have looked very lost at that, for one of the women – she could at first barely tell them apart for their ethereality – hair tucked behind one of her sharp ears, guided her by the elbow and released her only when they were presented to a magnificent Elf crowned in silver. He did not look much older than Boromir, but it was clear from his dignified posture and smile that he possessed a manner of leadership among the Elves, both in wisdom and strength.

"Lord Boromir of Gondor and Lady Éohild of Rohan, my lord," said their guide, who was dismissed with a nod.

"Lord Elrond," Boromir imitated the woman's bow. "It is an honor. We…"

"You are fortunate to arrive on this day, Boromir of Gondor; Éohild of Rohan," he informed them, nodding courteously. "Something was brought here that has not been seen in an Age; and though all our guests must contend with their own concerns, I must persuade you to attend a Council in which we are to discuss the fate of Middle-Earth."

"Of course," Boromir answered for the two of them, without hesitation. Éohild had balked at the sudden solemnity of his words, but understood. "Our concerns are tied, I believe, to this Council. We are honored."

Elrond inclined his head in approval. "There are others, on their way or on the mend. You are welcome to join us in the Last Homely House to await them."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond," said Éohild, beaming when the great Elf politely smiled down at her. She was so awed that she did not quite understand what he said when his lips moved before he departed.

Just as she turned to Boromir, their Elf guide reappeared. "Please," she motioned ahead, "follow me."

Éohild's head spun as they walked the halls of the Last Homely House, eyes darting left and right. There was never enough to drink in. Boromir seemed determined to put up a show of collectedness, but she didn't quite care at the moment, and accepted the invitation of their guide, Vinariel, to bathe.

Éohild did not keep track of how long she stayed in the baths, scrubbing especially between the nails and neck, but she felt refreshed enough to sleep when she finished. Yet Éohild could not. There was too much of Rivendell to see, too much excitement to be able to participate in something so trivial as rest.

To her misfortune, Vinariel had never quite seen a human girl and was fascinated that, hardy as Éohild seemed, she would die less than a century from that day. A grim outlook, in the Rider's opinion, but she supposed being immortal gave the woman a different perception of the world. What displeased Éohild was not that Vinariel insisted on arranging her hair in the way of the Elves; it was that according to the woman, she was so like a man in temperament and gait when they first arrived that Vinariel felt it was her duty to remind her she was also still a woman of grace. The girl refrained from sighing simply because Vinariel was so kind.

"And beautiful, at that," said the Elf, knotting the last braid behind her head. She went round Éohild to face her and smiled, motioning to the mirror beside her bed. "The prettiest girl of Rohan I have ever seen."

Éohild turned to her skeptically. "Lady Vinariel, I am the only girl of the Mark you have ever seen."

Vinariel's smile did not falter, as though she was used to babying girls and telling them they were _very_ beautiful despite being only _a little_. "Nonetheless," was her stubborn answer. "Now, look!"

Éohild rose from the bed to stand before the mirror. A part of her was disappointed, having hoped that she would hardly recognize herself because she had magically become an Elvish beauty even immortal men would die for, but her rational side was only too happy to have her hair almost look as lovely as Éowyn's. Their family had a history of golden locks, though Éomer's had always been a mite darker, and – was her hair's texture actually smooth enough to shine, like her sister's?

"Thank you," she said, fingers still twisting adoringly at the golden strands fraying her cheek. "Lady Vinariel."

"Vinariel," corrected the Elf, hands resting on her shoulders. "Éohild. I thank you in turn. It has been an Age since Lady Arwen allowed me to do this for her. I once attended to her, upon the will of Lady Celebrian." She explained, "Her mother, Lord Elrond's love long sailed to the West."

Éohild glanced back at her, measuring her in some way. Did Elves have governesses? The Mark did not, but Boromir mentioned that it was customary for highborn Gondorians. "You are so young. But then I suppose – you are an Elf. Lady Arwen?" It was the first she had heard of Lord Elrond's kin. Or that he was married.

"You will know when you see her," whispered Vinariel. "She is the most beautiful creature you will ever see. You are certain to, if you are to wait for the rest of the council attendants. But you are free to do as you wish for now. I would show you the graces of the Last Homely House, but I have duties to which I must attend. Will you be well?"

"Yes, thank you, Vinariel," said Éohild, watched the Elf disappear behind her door with a smile, and took a few minutes to admire her hair in the mirror. For once, they were not unruly or mired in sweat and dirt within or without her helm, as was often the case for a Rider. Miraculous! Her hair pinned back so elegantly brought out the brightness in her hazel eyes, if she said so herself.

When that was accomplished, Éohild knocked on Boromir's quarters down the hall. She would have entered if she were any more impatient, for in their months together she had grown accustomed to speaking with him whenever she wished. But Éohild remembered that it might seem improper to the Elves for he was only a friend, though now she felt a kinship with him as tightly wound as that she had with her cousin who may as well have been her brother.

She heard him lumbering towards the door and opening it seconds later. "Éohild. You…You're a woman?" When she replied with an affronted expression, he laughed. "You know I jest! You look wonderful, my friend."

"Hmm. Vinariel told me we were free to explore Imladris. Have you ever seen a place so magical?"

Boromir's mirth fell in favor of an apologetic grimace. "Loath am I to deprive myself of a friend's company," he murmured, "but even if I wished it I could not deprive my body of rest. I'm sorry, Éohild. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Very well." Éohild was only slightly disappointed. Companion or not, she would see the splendor of Imladris to its last detail.

Éohild began outside. She passed a garden with flowers and fruit-bearing foliage that may have passed for its own world, so varied were its inhabitants, then descended a short flight of stairs, the walls surrounding which engraved with designs as intricate as – no, certainly even more than – the tapestries in her Uncle's court.

The dirt path she found ran along the river that coursed through the area beneath one of its many bridges. She followed it to a rising slope and into a domed gazebo, where two young boys were sitting and laughing with another, though he spoke solemnly and only quietly looked up to one of the balconies every so often.

They did not talk like Elves, and as she approached them quietly she realized they wore no shoes, though their feet were larger than usual and covered in what appeared to be fur or thick hair. Nor were they clothed in Elven apparel. And their legs hung short of reaching the ground even as they sat on the edge of their seats, as though uneasy even in their laughter. They were Halflings; hardly children at all. Like in the stories! She thought it unbelievable at first, but then she _was_ in a home of Elves. She was willing to wager that not even her Uncle Théoden had ever seen one of these creatures.

"Hello there!" said the one nearest her, having heard her footsteps in the soil and seen her bewildered expression. They were all fair-haired with curly locks that reached their chins, but he had the narrowest nose and a twinkle in his green eyes. "You're not an Elf."

"No," answered Éohild. "And neither are you, Master Halfling."

"Actually, we prefer _Hobbits_," he said, standing with his arms akimbo as though he weren't only two-thirds her size. She rather liked his mettle.

"Forgive me, Master Hobbits," Éohild corrected herself, bowing respectfully, though she thought it a strange name. "I am Éohild, a Rider of the Mark."

He made a fancy flourish of his arm before holding it between his chest and stomach and imitating her bow. "Pippin," he replied, "of the Shire. And this is Merry, and that's Sam." He motioned to his friends. Merry had shared in his mirth earlier, but seemed now cautious before her. Still, he offered a smile and a bow. The widest of the three, Sam shuffled to his feet and did the same.

"We are well met, Masters Pippin, Merry, and Sam. I have never met Hobbits before. Or Elves," she added. "Not until today."

"Nice folk, the elves," said Sam, shyly, and glanced up at the balcony again. "Do you think I can go back there now? What if he's already awake?"

"Yes, a bit solemn, though," Pippin remarked, ignoring his friend.

Clearly, thought Éohild, they had not met Vinariel. "I was once told that Elven feasts were the envy of all the races."

"Whoever said that has never been to the Shire," grinned Merry, but as soon as Éohild smiled with him, he turned away, eyes downcast.

"Forgive me; the Shire?" she asked.

"Oh, it's where we come from," Pippin replied, but absentmindedly, and added, "They need to loosen up, I think." He turned to Sam, saying, "Oh, I think Frodo should be better now. I hope."

Sam perked up at this. Merry seemed uneasy in her presence, and it was not difficult to realize that Pippin had too many things on his mind to keep track of his own conversations, so Éohild took a step back. "I shall take my leave of you."

"Oh, yes," Pippin waved, looking back at her pleasantly. "It was nice meeting you!"

Éohild noticed that Merry and Sam buzzed back into the conversation as soon as she slipped away and wondered at the back of her mind if she was fearsome or irritating in some manner. Had she been too informal with them? What were their customs? Pippin seemed familiar enough, though he could have been one to naturally flout formalities. She saw that easily in him.

Still, Éohild did not think on it for too long. Rivendell was too enchanting for such worries. She decided to return to the river. On her way there, she saw an old, slouched Hobbit. Peculiar that she should begin seeing their kind all of a sudden, but not unwelcome. Were they part of the Council? She had forgotten to ask Pippin. The Hobbit looked kindly; lonely, even. She thought to approach him, but when Éohild peered closer she saw by his furrowed gray eyebrows that he was in deep thought, so she left him alone.

Éohild followed the stream. She would have found the bridge heading out from the archway that served as the entrance to Rivendell if a band of equestrian Elves cloaked in gossamer gray hadn't just entered, golden-haired but much taller than her, she could tell. She had always wondered if Elves tended horses as well as those in the Mark. With pride, Éohild saw that they seemed a mite stronger than Gondorian steeds, but were nothing like the royal mearas.

It struck Éohild as odd that the man who headed this group appeared to be the youngest out of them all – not older than Éomer, to be certain. He was handsome, she admitted to herself, and were his golden-hair wavy like the men of Edoras he may have passed for a member of the Eorlingas.

Well, that was a lie. The Elf was far too graceful as he dismounted his horse to be a member of the race of Men. Again, that otherworldly artistry with which his kind appeared to have been molded... Unlike the men of her home, he seemed unmarred by the terrors wreaking havoc from the East, and he held himself in such a princely manner that when he looked upon her, standing plainly by the stairway like a lost child, Éohild felt her breath catch.

The moment dissipated as soon as it came when his gaze passed her as though she were merely a spot in the splendid scenery of Imladris. Two Elves serving Elrond had come out to meet the group led by the young man – if he was indeed that age, something she began to doubt highly as embarrassment caught up with her by way of cold sweat. Had she actually stared, nearly slack-jawed, in the manner other maidens had at Éomer and Théodred? And only to be _ignored_?

Éohild felt nauseated at the thought that she, a Rider, should commit such irrationality as had only transpired. Taking a last glance at the golden-haired Elf – he was preoccupied with his kin, though she doubted he had ever noticed her – she turned on her heels and sought a more peaceful place without distraction.

Again, she found the dirt path that came before the gazebo, though passing by it she no longer sighted the Hobbits. Perhaps they went to visit that _Frodo _Pippin had mentioned. Éohild tiptoed close to the edge against a half-circle of pillars blocking the water, reaching for the streaming falls. There she sat, admiring the view of the rivers below and the woods ahead without a care as to the world beyond.

Her mind departed her earlier display of the silly girlish tendencies she thought she'd been certain were already removed from herself and flitted to more important matters like home. Did Gram manage to make it back? Were Éomer and Éowyn and Théodred worried? She hoped they did not send a fruitless search party. If there was any truth to the bond she shared with Fleetfoot or Windfola, perhaps they would realize that she lived, and had arrived safely into the capable hands of Lord Elrond.

Not even the setting sun drew her from her trance. If anything, it pulled her even deeper with it past the horizon, until a familiar singsong voice called out to her many times. Even then it was the tap on her shoulder that woke Éohild.

"Vinariel," she greeted, when she recovered from her jump. The sun had gone, but Rivendell proved just as beautiful in the evening. Lamps lit its elaborate halls, giving it an iridescence Éohild had only ever imagined in dreams. Before she was lost in its splendor again she asked, "What time is it?"

"Mealtime," smiled the woman, motioning for her to rise. "Lord Boromir was searching for you. It would please him if you shared dinner."

"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you," said Éohild, getting up and dusting the blue dress she was accommodated. She had tucked it between her legs to minimize the earth it might gather where she sat. She was glad no lady from the Mark had gone with her there; Leófe especially.

Leófe had grown to be the sort of adult who showed her love for the King's sister-daughters by reprimanding them for actions they undertook that were unbecoming of a lady. Éowyn hardly got scolded, having perfected the act of a court maiden, so Leófe spent her time hounding Éohild whenever she was in Edoras, insisting that though she was a Rider, she needn't act like an unruly man.

Éohild missed Leófe. Vinariel reminded her of the dear woman. Clearing her throat as though it would rid her of the sudden nostalgia, she turned to the Elf. "May I ask why there are Hobbits in Rivendell?"

"Perhaps I should not say too much," said Vinariel, looking for the first time uncertain. "Their arrival is – what, I shall say, sparked the necessity for a meeting. Tomorrow, they, too, will join the Council."

"Then there are other races?"

Vinariel nodded. "Glóin, son of Gróin, and his son Gimli of the Dwarves, to name a few. Mithrandir is come as well. You may know him as Gandalf."

"Oh!" Éohild felt elated at the mention of a familiar name, though she had never spoken with Gandalf. Or even met him, to be honest. He had always preferred to speak with Théoden King personally, and she was only too wary of him to protest. "Yes, I saw him in the halls of my home as a child. But – why have more Elves come? I saw them earlier. Fair-haired, most of them."

"You must mean the Elves of Mirkwood," Vinariel answered as they started for the rooms. "They, too, come bearing news. And now you have all arrived. The Council will convene tomorrow."

That was disappointing. Éohild had hoped to spend more time in Imladris, but she steeled herself remembering that this was no vacation. She and Boromir had risked their lives braving the abandoned North for the sake of a hope for their kingdoms, and the sooner the Council could assemble, the better. Orcs would continue to assault Riders of the Mark and the soldiers of Gondor whether or not she saw Rivendell's entirety.

Éohild and Vinariel parted by Boromir's room, where a table had been set up for them. It was a small feast, and Éohild's eyes sparkled at the sight of meat. The last they had partaken of anything like it – though this was superior in every way – was before they entered the forest that eventually brought them to Rivendell. She forgot that she hadn't eaten since that morning.

"You look well-rested," said Éohild, sitting across her traveling companion, by whose rumpled hair she could tell had only awakened. It was funny how familiar a hundred days could make them that she could identify the different ways the environment could tousle his hair. This was new, for he had actually lain on a comfortable pillow.

"And I hear you have not rested at all," replied Boromir, grimacing at the thought. "But you smell better now."

Éohild laughed. "I found it difficult to sleep with so much to see. Boromir, I even met three Hobbits! Halflings, if you'll believe me. Vinariel says Gandalf is here, too! They call him Mithrandir. I have not seen him since I was young, before I took up the sword for the Riders. They say he doesn't age."

"In Gondor, we call him Mithrandir, as well," said Boromir, looking only slightly surprised before falling into a state of reflection. He stared at his food, brows furrowed.

Éohild did not stop eating for his sake, but it bothered her not to receive the shock she had expected. Perhaps Gandalf visited Gondor more often than he did the Mark. They faced Orc numbers so much more frequently, after all. When he finally continued his meal in silence, it seemed almost perfunctory. "What is it, Boromir?" she asked. "What bothers you?"

Blinking at her for a second, Boromir recovered with a smile. "Did you see more of your Elves?"

"Oh, yes," Éohild muttered. "But they were not as hearty as I imagined; perhaps it is the preparation for the Council tomorrow. Only Vinariel seems unaffected. You know, Pippin expressed the same thought."

"Pippin?"

"One of the Hobbits I met."

Boromir's eyes twinkled. "Look at you," he said. "Stealing hearts already. I promised Éomer you would not entertain men under my watch."

"Funny," replied Éohild, making a face. "But his friends did not seem to take to me, much."

"Well," Boromir shrugged. "You do look rather unfriendly in the beginning."

"I do not!" Éohild gasped affectedly. Boromir kept the smirk on his face, and she continued to defend herself for his amusement until the heavy air from earlier had gone. And it did, a little, until he finished his meal pleasantly. By that time Éohild had long finished and was only waiting for him. When he walked her back to her room, she noted that he was walking off opposite the direction of his.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"For a walk," he answered, turning back slightly. When Éohild said nothing more, he left the hall.

Boromir looked so weary. He only looked that way a few times in the months they had traveled. There was a week when they both worried, frantically, that they had missed Rivendell, until they suffered the wolf attack and simply resolved to get somewhere civilized at all. Even then, he almost always appeared optimistic.

Perhaps the weight of their duty had returned in full force, now that the Council would convene tomorrow. He did not have to bear such a burden on his own, but she would leave him to his devices, if he needed time to brood. It was something she had learned from dealing with the men of her family and éored.

Éohild returned to Boromir's room and noticed only then that while her traveling companion had tried his best to make the bed – a rather sad attempt, but he was a Captain-General and probably had little time to learn such things – his blankets were completely crumpled. Here was one valid indication. Had he tossed so uneasily in his sleep? In the time they had traveled, he had always been a still sleeper. It was as if being in Rivendell provided him no comfort at all.

Still, she wondered what to do about the food. Éohild almost always took it back herself, save for when she was with Éowyn or Éomer. But she had seen nothing that resembled kitchens there. That and it was difficult to imagine Elves having kitchens. They seemed too glorious for such a thing. Just as Éohild stood to search for it anyway, she noticed the Elf standing by the doorway.

"Are you finished, milady?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded, waiting for him to move, but he remained in place. Did he want her to leave? Was the Elvish tactic for cleaning a trade secret?

There was nothing Éohild could do but exit the room and, since her curiosity would never be sated otherwise, find the kitchens. Outside their hall was a wide clearing surrounded by short trees. Fireflies blinked in and out of view, but Éohild hardly noticed them when she stepped out. Across the garden in the opposite hall was the golden-haired Elf who had caught her eye.

Éohild discovered that her feet had brought her to hide behind one of the building's posts when she caught herself peeking at him from behind it. Clad in a sky blue tunic that matched his eyes – and when exactly did she even note that he possessed such things? – he had been walking leisurely when two dark-haired Elves approached. It was clear from where she watched that they had been searching for him, and that they were familiar with each other.

Why was she watching him? The thought squirmed itself into Éohild's mind, and she answered by saying she was _not_. What did she have to be ashamed for? She was only looking at him because…well, she found it irritating that a man should have golden hair prettier than hers. Silkier, too. Nodding to herself in affirmation, Éohild's attention returned to the Elves.

One of the dark-haired pair was staring straight at her.

Éohild almost yelped, managing at the last minute to contain it to a gasp that did not escape her lips. But she was certain he had seen her stiffen, and that his gaze was not an absent one. When Éohild peered out at him again, she saw him speaking, eyes turning in her direction every so often. His companion and the golden-haired Elf were none the wiser.

She was ruined. That Elf would spread to the Council that the representative of the Riddermark was an oddity who attempted foolishly to hide behind twisting posts half her build, and who was now sauntering away from the place as calmly as she could. Deniability was always an option. Éohild could have simply dropped a hair clip and picked it up at that very moment from that very post, hence the close proximity to it. It was only natural to be surprised at the Elf's glance, after all, and then walk away as though she had nothing to be guilty for.

And then Elves would wonder if knights of the Mark were all so clumsy, and the Riders would be ruined.

Éohild rubbed her palm over her eyes. Pondering the issue would only give it importance. If she treated it as insignificant, so would the Elves. At least, she hoped so.

Her own troubles were forgotten when she spotted Boromir shooting his finger a sour look far ahead of her. Going to him quickly, she asked, "Are you all right? You look pallid."

Boromir lifted an eyebrow at what seemed to be an interruption to his thoughts, but put on his best smile when he saw that it was her. Placing a hand on Éohild's shoulder, he nodded. "I am fine, Éohild."

"Boromir, wait f—" she tried, but he appeared determined to head back to his room. Éohild was beginning to think that Rivendell had opposite effects on them, with her friend's agitation worsening. Asking him to discuss it might lighten his burden, but she had never been a great speaker. When she came to the decision to follow and knocked on his door, he didn't answer.

Éohild had sadly resigned herself to her quest for the kitchen and was wandering about aimlessly when she rounded a corner and laid her eyes upon the most beautiful woman in the world, whom until that moment she had thought to be her sister. With dark tresses that highlighted her alabaster skin, she walked with a grace that outclassed any royal-blooded mortal.

Beside her was a man dressed in a simple tunic, the stubble on his chin quickly growing into a scruffy beard. The sparkling pendant hanging from his neck contrasted greatly with his dark ensemble, and Éohild wondered what gave him the right to keep the company of such a lovely creature.

When she looked into his bright eyes, however, she simply understood. He was different from any Man she had ever met, and while unassuming in the way he dressed, he exuded something magnificent Éohild could not grasp, like a distant star whose brilliance she could never fully fathom. She wondered if he even knew it.

"Do not go."

Éohild had been ready to retreat to her bedroom, hoping they had not seen her, when the woman spoke. Turning back, she bowed immediately. "Good evening," she greeted. Vinariel had been right. "You must be the Lady Arwen. It is an honor to pass you in the halls of the Last Homely House."

Arwen smiled. "You are welcome here, Éohild of the Mark. Be at ease."

Éohild had grown as the King's niece and was accustomed to praise and honor, even gratitude among many of her people, but in the face of the Elves she felt inadequate, small. Arwen's soothing voice brushed it away like weightless dust. "I am," Éohild said, honestly. "Thank you, my lady."

Arwen and her companion exchanged gentle smiles. She motioned to him, glowing as she did, and Éohild before them was certain they were about to be introduced when another person came up beside the young girl, cutting into their conversation. It was the golden-haired Elf.

He was taller than she expected was all Éohild could think as he spoke in some Elvish language she could not understand. _Aragorn_, he had addressed the man – unless she was mistaken and that was _I am sorry to rudely interrupt your conversation without so much as a glance to the woman you are speaking with_ in Elvish. _Elrohir_, she understood as a separate concept, but after it, she could make out nothing but a string of incomprehensible words.

The man nodded, lips pursed and, touching Arwen's hand intimately, nodded apologetically at Éohild. The Elf looked back at Éohild with an expression that denoted surprise. Éohild could not help but frown unhappily at his interruption. He had noticed her just then, but turned away without a word and followed the man who seemed to be Arwen's lover away from them.

"Shall we walk together?"

Éohild forgot all about the Elf and nodded almost eagerly at Arwen, who preferred that Éohild address her without the title. The girl blushed but agreed, and soon found herself lost in conversation with Lord Elrond's daughter.

She told Éohild things about the Last Homely House she could not have known otherwise, about the Hall of Fire and the feasts that might be held, songs sung and stories told there were there not an urgent need for a Council. Éohild was so fascinated by her stories to think more on how Arwen had expertly deflected her question about the kitchens. Soon they fell into a silent lull, but Éohild was only too happy for the company and the chance to appreciate Arwen's home before the Council the next day to notice that they had already arrived at her quarters.

"It would be most ungrateful to Lord Elrond if I did not bring you back to your quarters, my lady," said Éohild, but in truth she only felt the need to protect the woman. She had no idea whence the desire stemmed, but like Éowyn, though she knew she could hold her own, she would feel uneasy if she did not see Arwen to her room, reassured of her safety.

"This is my home," Arwen declined kindly. "And I am as much the host as my father. Rest now. Tomorrow the Council will convene, and for the grave matters there to be discussed – I would compel you to lie in preparation. You are still travel-weary."

"Very well," said Éohild, bowing again. "Thank you, my lady." Then Arwen went, and almost as if under a spell, no matter how she tried to stay awake, Éohild slept as soon as she washed up and crept under the blankets of her bed.

* * *

A knock on the door roused her early the next morning. It was an Elf, still to her surprise, whom she gratefully sent away after watching him stare at her messy hair almost curiously. Did_ they_ have perpetually immaculate hair? Éohild was groggy and tried to imagine why this was so when she recalled that she had been traveling for months with Boromir, where they never slept at quite the same intervals as if they were safe in Imladris.

Dressing into her 'Council garments,' which consisted only of her other pair of clean traveling clothes, Éohild allowed Vinariel into her room. At times Éohild knew that she looked rather comely in dresses, and Rivendell was beautiful enough that it might help her along, but she had heard other council members wore apparel from their own homes. Éohild thought it only proper that she wear something representing the Mark, no matter if it was a mannish tunic that might make others think she yearned only for "the fires of battle" instead of a man's heart, or that the green dress laid out for her on the bed looked like something out of a dream, like many other things in this place.

Vinariel had come in to offer her the dress _and_, once she entered, arrange her hair again, for the Elf was grimly astonished to see that Éohild had certainly _not _gotten the hang of the simple art of hair arrangement. It did not matter that the girl insisted that she had tried very hard practicing the night before and would have "succeeded" had her eyes not been so heavy.

Boromir had gone ahead, so Éohild followed Vinariel to the Council grounds. It was held in a secluded area of Rivendell where the members were gathered in seats facing a single pedestal. The overhead structures and the branches of a great oak tree whose roots weaved into the mountainside hovered close to the seat of Lord Elrond, just taller than the rest to signify his place as chief presider, providing shade in an already cloudy morning.

On the way, Éohild caught Merry and Pippin tiptoeing nearby. It was Merry who noticed her first, freezing with obvious guilt, but Pippin waved back a cheerful _hullo!_ before Merry hauled him aside and Vinariel turned a corner. Éohild did not think Hobbits could much affect the Council by eavesdropping, and though from what she had understood, the Hobbits would attend, she kept quiet.

"There they are," whispered Vinariel.

They stood in a suspended arch connecting to the structures surrounding the council proper, peeking down like children. Below, Éohild saw Elves, Dwarves, Gandalf in his pointy hat and gray robes, Boromir, and a Hobbit, though he was not Merry, Pippin, or Sam. Later she would see that he was dark-haired with the clearest blue eyes, and were he not a Halfling he may have made for a fair lad. Now, Éohild was most dismayed not to find the Lady Arwen, but she supposed there were enough Elves to represent their kind in the meeting.

"Who is that?" asked Éohild, motioning to the golden-haired Elf. His companions were there as well, but his face stood out among them.

"Legolas," replied Vinariel, "of the Woodland Realm, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood."

Of course he was a prince, Éohild thought. How could she have thought of him as anything but, given the strength of his presence? Although he was in want of some manners, as when he hardly acknowledged her the night before—

"And who are those two, at Lord Elrond's side?" They were the dark-haired Elves speaking with that Legolas, and one of them had caught her staring the night before. One of them, because now she could see that they were twins, and she was wholly unable to tell them apart.

"Lord Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir." Vinariel seemed amused at her curiosity, but upon meeting her lord's eyes below, turned to her charge. "It is time to take your seat at the Council, Éohild."

Éohild agreed and descended the steps into the caucus. She passed Elrond, to whom she inclined her head. The Elf lord smiled stiffly, dictating the mood with which the meeting was to be held. As she passed her seat, turning her eyes from him, Éohild's gaze passed the twins. The one sitting to the left met her gaze respectfully, but the other smiled – almost mischievously, though she would never know if reality or her guilt had shown her thus.

Éohild sat in the empty seat beside Boromir. "Good morning," she greeted.

Boromir glanced at her, startled again, it seemed, but replied, "Good morning, Éohild."

She wondered at his alarm. "Is something the matter?"

He blinked at her. "Nothing," he said tensely, then feigned ease. "Nothing is wrong. I am only—nothing."

"Boromir," she pushed, smiling like he had uttered something humorous. They often did it to one another to rouse each other out of moods into which they sometimes fell on their journey, but today it was fruitless.

Boromir peered at her as though she were doing something unnatural and insisted, "My friend. Nothing is wrong."

He was so tightly wound that Éohild thought it inadvisable to attempt conversation again. She turned instead the other way, to a Dwarf whose auburn hair spilled from his head to his chest – or if it stopped at a certain length she could not be sure, because his braided beard got in the way and confused her. At any rate, he was too busy to notice, speaking in hushed tones with the gray-haired Dwarf on his other side who looked an awful lot like him. Although at this point all Dwarves appeared the same to her, save for their hair color.

Éohild was curious. When Éomer grew old, perhaps he would grant her a request to grow his little beard long enough for her to braid it, like the Dwarf next to her. Théodred surely would, even if he was not very fond of facial hair, just for the fun of it. Éohild yearned for her cousin's company again. He would know what to do about Boromir.

Elrond stood after a time, when the Council had settled. He spoke of the world upon the brink of destruction and was quite a doomsayer, Éohild fearfully thought, her mind flitting to the Mark and the Eorlingas, though she had no idea why he said such terrible things until the fair Hobbit rose from his seat and ambled toward the pedestal, laying a small object in its center.

Isildur's Bane. The weapon of the Enemy. Boromir had related to her tomes of legends surrounding it as they traveled, but she had not known it would be a Ring. Then again, old tales were filled with magic that made little sense, and she sat now surrounded by creatures she had never believed existed.

And the Hobbit's name was Frodo, Éohild thought belatedly. A Hobbit in possession of such a thing? How did it come to pass?

"So it is true," Boromir whispered, leaning on his armrest closer to her. Éohild was not certain if he spoke to her or was only muttering to himself. Still, she nodded in agreement. She suddenly felt that she should reach for it, see what it was like to touch something so Ancient, something an unfathomable Enemy held so dear. Éohild would have done so – or attempted to, at least – had she not heard the buzzing.

Not all was tranquil, even as all were quiet. There was a slight murmur in the area, and when she sought its source, it came to Éohild that it was a sound emanating from within, like the voice had burrowed deep in her mind and uttered those cryptic words. They were her thoughts but they were not, at all.

"Then…" she asked, but even in the silence it was a task to raise her voice. It was like fighting against herself for attention. "What are we to do with it?"

The Council turned to her sharply, tempting Éohild to sink back into her seat, but Boromir stood and drew the attention to himself. "In a dream," he started, breathing deeply, "I saw the eastern sky grow dark. But in the west, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: _your doom is near at hand_."

He had told her once the entirety of the dream he shared with his brother, but she had not thought he would take it up here, before so many strangers. Boromir neared the pedestal as he expressed it, and Éohild looked round the Council again to see that many of them watched him warily. It was then that she saw the man who had touched Arwen intimately giving Boromir the same look of caution. She found she could not blame any of them, for her friend had always spoken with such charisma – but this manner was different from how he had related it to her. Something in his voice, and for all that she knew him she could not understand what it was.

"Boromir!"

Éohild's shoulders jolted in surprise at Elrond's abrupt yell. More than that, Gandalf rose with his staff, enunciating words that bedimmed the atmosphere and caused the oak above to weaken. Éohild recalled vividly the night she and Éowyn first encountered Orcs, but this darkening of the sky was filed with malice and a fear she could not understand. It was one that stemmed from deep in her soul, as though they had been brought into the world knowing it was Evil.

The murmur grew into a solid voice, and Éohild pressed a hand against her eyes until the leaves stopped falling and Boromir returned to his seat, Gandalf quieting. Elrond cast the Wizard a look meant to rebuke.

"Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris!"

Gandalf only exhaled. "I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring," he very nearly spat, eyes directed at Boromir, "is altogether Evil."

But Boromir was adamant, and shook his head. "It is a gift to the foes of Mordor," he said, rising again. "Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay." His voice grew in intensity. "By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy. Let us use it against him!"

"You cannot wield it!" declared the man whom Éohild was now sure was Arwen's lover, or at the very least the man with whom she would plight her troth. She had thought long and hard about his manner, and though it was difficult to believe a mortal could be with an Elf like her, the way she looked upon him was so dear that they could share no other kind of relationship in Éohild's mind. She dwelled on this as the men continued to argue, for she had not understood the exchange between Elrond and Gandalf and was still fighting to understand this new discussion. "None of us can," he stressed, painfully. "The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

Boromir sneered. "And what would a Ranger know of this matter?"

"This is no mere Ranger," spoke Legolas, clearly offended in the man's stead. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

Éohild knew Boromir had been remiss in addressing another member of the Council so carelessly, but she found herself defensive in his behalf. She did not like the tone of the golden-haired Elf, no matter if his voice was pleasing to the ears.

Boromir repeated it with disbelief. "This is Isildur's heir…?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," said Legolas.

Speaking in Elvish, Aragorn shook his head at the prince, declining his words. Could such a thing _be _declined? It certainly explained to Éohild why there was an air to be admired about him even without knowing him at all.

"Gondor has no king," said Boromir, finally recovering, first at Legolas, then to Aragorn. "Gondor needs no king."

Gandalf must have known, for he dismissed the issue without another word. Setting the Council back to its purpose, he said, "Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

"You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed," said Elrond, eyes landing finally on Éohild as if to answer her previous question.

Éohild concealed a frown with a nod. This was why they were summoned here? It was hardly a matter to be discussed, if such an action had already been decided, but she supposed it was fair of Elrond to call the Council to explain such a thing. And who would do it? The Ring was beautiful, perfect in shape and glinting against the light…like thousands of her Meduseld combined.

"Then what are we waiting for?" asked the Dwarf beside her, snapping her out of her trance as he hopped off his seat ungracefully and lunged at the Ring, axe raised.

The Council gasped as he struck the Ring, only to be thrown on his back. Recovering, the first thing Éohild saw was Frodo holding his head painfully. Such brashness must have shocked him, too. She had not known what to expect from the Dwarves, but now she knew they were quite to the point—something she admired in others and had lost quite a bit in herself during her training as a squire. Speaking out of turn was highly discouraged then, most attempts getting _Ears _a good scolding and the entire week's worth of cleaning out horse manure, and horse manure was not the way to earning the acceptance she had so desired.

But as she looked in fear at the Ring, the Dwarf's axe in splintered pieces around it, she understood, as did the rest of the Council, that brute force was inadequate when it came to this Evil thing.

Éohild watched the Dwarf beside her surrounded by his kin and brought to his feet, even as Elrond began to address him. She wished to help him, but she could not bring herself to move for wonder at the Ring. Somewhere beneath these thoughts she heard that Gimli was his name, and Elrond told him that only in Mount Doom could they rid themselves of it, for that was where it was made.

Deep into Mordor, Elrond had said. "One of you must do this."

"One does not simply walk into Mordor," Boromir muttered with agitation. "Its black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the great Eye is ever-watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!"

"Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?" said Legolas, voice full and equally aggravated. "The Ring must be destroyed!"

"Boromir only describes the perils—" Éohild had barely a chance to speak when Gimli leapt off his chair again, shaking his fist at the Elf.

"And I suppose you think _you're_ the one to do it!" he yelled. Éohild sat down in surprise, feeling quite humiliated. She would have gotten angry with the Dwarf, but he was often the type of person she thought she might get on with, impetuous and easily riled – and if he wanted a go at Legolas, he could have it.

But Boromir spoke first. "And if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

"I will be _dead_ before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!" Gimli bellowed, and the uproar sprung thence, like the Council members from their seats. They argued, all of them, hardly anyone taking sides but his own. Éohild attempted to pull at Boromir, but he shuffled out of her grasp and into an argument with one of the Legolas' Elves, whom the prince himself tried to hold back.

Éohild wanted to join the fight, truly, but she had no knowledge whatsoever of the Ring save that it was dangerous and must be destroyed. They were going to need an army greater than that of the Last Alliance to get through Sauron's forces. Amidst her thoughts she could hear Gimli yelling about Elves and Gandalf trying to bring reason into the Council, but the rest, as it was, was chaos.

Elrond watched the commotion in his Council rise helplessly. Éohild sat back in her chair looking up at the men whose reasons she could no longer decipher from one another. Perhaps this _was_ their province. If so, it could solve nothing. Battle was tiresome enough, though necessary, but verbal sparring was foolish! If that Ring was hers, she knew she would put it to good use. She was a woman, unhindered by the prideful, warmongering ways of men. Éohild knew in her heart that she could think more clearly than any of them in the face of such a powerful weapon. Proper decisions would be made, families kept safe, wars won—

"You! Lass! What do you think you're doing?"

It was the most perfect thing she had ever seen. With it, all those who had ever scoffed at her potential would—

One moment, Éohild was sitting on her chair, the vision of the Ring inching closer and closer amidst the arguing men, and then she had lost her balance. Looking up, she saw that she had tumbled into the unwilling arms of the golden-haired prince. Before she could speak, there was a familiar tug at her wrists, and Boromir had pulled her to her feet.

"Of all the times—" her friend groaned, even as the commotion around them continued, "Picking a fight with a Dwarf, Éohild?"

"I—I did nothing!" Éohild's head whipped toward Gimli, the true way of events rushing back to her. She had stood, making her own feet move toward the pedestal, eyes focused on the Ring. It had not come to her at all. And then, halfway there— "He pushed me!"

If he had heard her accusation, the red-haired Dwarf she pointed at did not care, already caught up in an argument with a new Elf. Boromir gave a long suffering sigh and looked about to make another reprimand when a small voice rang out amidst all those fighting for dominance.

"I will take it! I will take it."

It was Frodo, and though he was only a little more than half all their sizes, his voice hushed the Council into silence. "I will take the Ring to Mordor," he said, softening as he realized he had finally captured their bewildered attention. "Though…I do not know the way."

Éohild stared at him in disbelief, the vestiges of anger still clutching at the edge of her thoughts. A Hobbit, take the Ring to Mordor? Preposterous! She waited for Gandalf and Elrond to make known their refusal of such an idea, but the great beings looked only saddened and resigned. It seemed those in attendance all understood, because their prideful stances, tight shoulders and furrowed eyebrows all fell slack. It was embarrassment, perhaps, that a Hobbit could keep his composure where they had not; or it could have simply been shock. It seemed a day before anybody moved to redeem himself.

Finally, Gandalf rested a hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins. So long as it is yours to bear."

"If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will," said Aragorn moments later, kneeling humbly before Frodo. "You have my sword."

"And you have my bow," announced Legolas, smiling down at the Hobbit. How he could so easily become light-hearted Éohild would never understand.

"And my axe!" Gimli declared, though he and the golden-haired Elf exchanged looks of distaste.

Boromir nodded, too, which shocked Éohild most of all. Despite his earlier demeanor, he spoke decisively. "You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done."

Éohild took a step closer and wavered. They were all so ready to pledge themselves to a quest like this. Was it because they were lords and heirs, meant for greatness? She was of noble blood, yet she could not imagine promising herself so wholly, no matter if she knew it only right. Théodred fit the company of these men better. But he was not here; he had delegated this task to her, so Éohild urged herself to stride forward.

She put on the air of a king's niece as best she could, hoped they did not see that she suddenly did not belong there, did not measure up to their confidence. Something in her knew she would meet disappointment if she did not speak up, despite that she hated the idea of making any announcements before this large number of strangers. Éohild had trouble enough addressing too many of their éored.

Although she knew now that hubris had given her such nasty thoughts, she still thought it better if she at least asked to join. It was the reason she was there – to rid the Mark of any threats to it. This Ring was the greatest threat…beautiful though it was. She had no choice.

"The Mark was not in attendance, long ago, when Men gave much to the battle against the Enemy," she said, keeping her voice steady, stately, focused solely on Frodo. Her worries faded a little when he smiled at her both in acceptance and gratitude. Her heart eased, her tone halfway back to the natural. Her knees still shook, but Éohild steeled herself and continued. "It is only right that we aid you now."

"Hey!" shouted something that caused the bushes to rustle noisily behind the Elves. Sam the Hobbit scrambled to get himself between Aragorn and Frodo, which the former allowed with some amusement. "Mr. Frodo's not goin' anywhere without me!"

"No, indeed," said Elrond, wearing an indignant expression, though by the end of his speech he had not been able to help his smile, "it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is invited to a secret Council and you are not."

"Oy!" Merry and Pippin yelped at the entrance, scurrying over to their friends. "We're coming, too!"

"You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us," said Merry.

"Anyway," Pippin informed them, in a very matter-of-factly manner that would have made many of them laugh if they were not so surprised, "you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission! …Quest. Thing."

"Well, that rules you out, Pip," Merry grinned, and Éohild could no longer contain an exhale of astonishment at Pippin's affronted expression. She returned to pursing her lips only when Elrond finally cast a serious glance at them all.

"I should think it better that you remain nine; Nine Walkers," said Elrond, eyebrows furrowed, "set against Nine Riders."

The others shifted uncomfortably. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli did not waver. The Hobbits stuck together, Merry and Pippin huddling close to Frodo as well as Sam, and Gandalf was not an option for removal. Although eyes did not immediately or necessarily fall to them, Éohild knew that either she or Boromir would have to go. And by she or Boromir, she thought _she_, for Boromir had dreamt of the East, and she had only come to see what it was in Imladris that had caused it. But then – her purpose for coming, too, was to know what could be done about her people. She cared for the fate of that Ring just as much as the others.

"Lord Elrond," she guiltily spoke, attempting to channel her sister's regality, "Please – just as these good men, it is for my home and Middle-Earth that I go. I – I need not even be counted."

Elrond gave her a peculiar look at that. Clearly, she did not understand what he had meant. Nine had not simply been for the sake of formality, and knowing what he knew of Men, he was not inclined to permit another of them to go. But they would face challenges more difficult than even he could imagine, and he had long thought on the foresight of an old friend, regarding the soul of a once-Man who would not be destroyed by one like him, and he had considered this girl, a rarity among her race only in that she drew thick steel instead of cloth and herbs, a possibility.

And so were the smaller races who had so politely interrupted the Council – he pardoned them both for Gandalf's love of them and his suspicions in the part they might yet play, for they were certain to face greater evils than simply Orcs on their journey. It might all be too easy, and it was more than likely that he was wrong in his interpretation of the prophecy. Yet stranger things had ever occurred in the world, so the Elf lord made his decision.

"Ten companions; so be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring," he proclaimed. Éohild felt her mouth widen as gratitude enveloped her. The last time this happened, she had finally joined the Riders and her cousin's éored—but soon the feeling grew cold, when she realized what their task entailed. This was nothing to be excited about. And yet the fear passed when Pippin exclaimed,

"Great! Where are we going?"

Elrond sighed, and the council dispersed after some words from him. Aragorn joined him as soon as it happened, while Legolas and Gimli took one look at each other and turned away, the latter talking to Boromir. Legolas later joined the conversation – Gimli left when he did – and Éohild, while glad that her friend made peace with someone despite what had occurred in the Council, wondered why he had to speak to the prince, of all people. Not that Éohild should have cared, for she had been swept into a conversation with the Hobbits.

"I'm not sure who the others are," Pippin was telling Frodo, "but this is Éohild. Rider of the Mark. A woman," he craned his neck to look at her, "and a soldier! Did I get that right?"

"You did, indeed. It is a pleasure to meet you," she said to the Ring-bearer.

"The pleasure is mine. Frodo Baggins," he said, like a true gentleman, and the way he smiled denoted this fragility that made Éohild want to sweep him into her arms and protect him. (Or throw him somewhere safe and destroy the key.) It was almost the way she felt about Arwen, but instead of preserving one to be admired it was the concern she felt for a child, though he was not a child at all, she knew. And like Arwen, there was a courage to him she could not disrespect by outwardly declaring a wish to keep him safe as though he were helpless.

"Is it normal for women to fight where you're from?" Pippin asked curiously. The other two glanced at her expectantly.

"It is not. But I did fight tooth and nail to become a Rider. And cleaned horse manure," she mumbled the last sentence to herself.

"Why is that, if I may ask?" said Frodo.

A fair question, thought Éohild, and pondered it with an almost confused expression. "Ah. I suppose I was good at it. Fighting, I mean. I had studied the art since my younger days, thanks to my cousin, and was never very skilled at cooking, or sewing, or handling the household. Much less healing."

"Hmm. Okay. Do I have it right? You've a woman's body, but you're a man inside?" said Pippin, thumbing at his chin in wonder.

Éohild blinked. "No, no. I am a woman. On both ends. Inside and out."

"Ah. I suppose you just have different tastes when it comes to your skill, then? _But_ you are completely a woman." When Éohild nodded gratefully at this assumption, Pippin looked pleased and elbowed Merry, whispering, "It's safe."

"So," Merry cleared his throat, pointedly glaring at Pippin before glancing at her for a split second, then turned to Frodo, who simply chuckled at the exchange. Éohild didn't understand. Had she said something to offend him so? "What do we do now?"

In any case, she answered as Sam joined them, "Well, the first thing to do is to determine which of your belongings to prepare."

"I'll have to bring my trusty skillet," said Sam, thoughtfully.

"Allow me to accompany you, Sam," said Éohild. "Boromir and I have little to pack. We have learned to travel relatively light."

"He was your companion; Boromir?" asked Frodo.

"We came here together, yes."

"Oh," said Pippin, and Éohild knew at once that the mischief on his face was a near permanent fixture. "Then you're engaged."

Éohild couldn't help but mimic Merry's shocked expression. "No, not at all."

"Oh." Pippin's mirth faded until he came up with another question. "Does that disappoint you?"

"Pippin!" Merry scolded. "I think it's perfectly normal _not_ to be engaged yet."

Sam nodded in agreement. "It takes a special sort of courage to ask a girl to marry you."

"Sam would know," said Pippin, snickering. Frodo shared it, but schooled his face into one of innocence when the Hobbit in question glanced his way.

"No, you're right," Éohild told Sam. Now she was curious about who it was he wanted to marry from their home. Their height made her view them as children, and it was difficult to imagine them otherwise. "But there is no time for betrothals in the Mark, especially for a Rider. These days are often beset by Orc attacks in our lands."

Frodo's eyebrows furrowed. "Do you think we'll encounter many Orcs?"

"Facing them is inevitable, I suppose, if we are to come close to Mordor. But not to worry. You have swords and axes and my blades to protect you. And your friends, of course," said Éohild, motioning to the other Hobbits. Merry and Sam wore proud stances.

"And an Elf's bow," said Pippin, brightly.

"Yes, his bow," sighed Éohild. Then, uncurling her lip, she turned to Sam, who was very happy to have had the attention diverted from him. "Shall we?"

Éohild accompanied Sam to one of the Hobbits' quarters, which had a small balcony with a nice view. It looked even bigger with Sam moving about in it, though he seemed to have already packed. He was an earnest Hobbit, and such a mellow, bashful thing before taller races that it was contagious when he smiled, and certainly attention-grabbing when he spoke up as he had in the Council.

As she helped him search for his skillet, which had somehow found its way under the pillows, Sam eased if only a little around her, telling her about Bill the Pony and a gist of their journey from the Shire. Strider – or Aragorn, as he was now known – had helped them escape Sauron's Ringwraiths.

Even she had never fathomed those things until he spoke of them, and to find that the Hobbits had survived such an encounter without the trauma that often returned with some soldiers after one Orc raid was humbling. And he was shorter than she had been at twelve. They were not children at all, innocent though they were.

"Bill will be joinin' us on our expedition," said Sam, now making the bed. He was much better at it than her and Boromir. "Gandalf said so."

"That is…precious," said Éohild, though she wondered if the pony was fit for such a taxing trip. "Boromir and I lost our horses during our sojourn here. Well…I lost them, during an Orc attack. Set them loose to protect them."

Sam frowned. "You don't think the Orcs will attack poor ol' Bill, will they?"

"We are a slightly larger force this time around," said Éohild, hoping to assuage his worries. "I am certain he will be protected. But our priority is to protect you, Sam, and the others."

"I can protect myself, too. And Mr. Frodo..." Sam took a shortsword just his size from his pack. A barrow-blade, he called it, though Éohild did not ask why.

"A fitting weapon," she nodded, but noted that he did not wield it as well as he should. "You must be lighter on your feet, so you can deal quick attacks and retreat immediately. Do you know how to use it?"

At this, Sam lowered the weapon. "Well, you see…"

"If you wish to protect Frodo, I can teach you how," Éohild offered. It was a curious blade of a make she had never before seen. Not quite special, but different. "I am quite adept with shorter blades like this, and was so even as a child."

"Oh! I, I wouldn't want to be a bother, Miss Éohild," said Sam, stuffing the blade into his pack.

"No bother," she shook her head. "I doubt we shall always be under attack. You will have time to learn before we reach Mordor. And you'll be much more at ease knowing you can defend yourself."

Before Sam could answer, there came a knock at the door. "What is it?" asked Éohild, who looked up from fluffing the pillows just in time to see Legolas invite himself in, though he only stood past the doorframe.

"Gandalf wishes to discuss our plans in a moment," he announced. "We shall meet in the Hall of Fire."

Sam jumped at the mention of Gandalf. "We'll come right now," he said, glancing at Éohild. "Shouldn't we?"

"…Go ahead, Sam."

With a nod, Sam departed the room, but Legolas remained at the door. He looked at her curiously, like it was the first he had ever seen of a human girl, or perhaps she was fluffing the pillows wrong. Having become conscious of the act, Éohild set down the pillow as the Elf said, "Boromir was looking for you, last we spoke."

Éohild stared at him for a beat until she finally managed to answer with a semblance of a smile, "Thank you." She did not hear him leave, all too busy rebuking herself for looking more of a fool than she was certain was possible. Still, Éohild attempted to brush him and the polite smile he had given as he spoke out of her mind as she left the room. Knocking on Boromir's door, she entered even before he could answer.

"Let me help you," Éohild offered. Boromir was fixing his sheathe and apparel, having stripped down to his inner tunic to rest in his room after the Council. She picked up his vest and helped him into it, just as she had done for Théodred in the past. Their time together felt years ago, now.

"What did you need?" she asked, buckling his vest and picking up his belt sheathe. They would not need weapons for the meeting Gandalf wanted, but as she wasn't certain when they would leave, she took it anyway.

Boromir sighed. "I must - apologize, Éohild."

Éohild quirked a brow. Her friend was the not the kind of man who took pleasure in apologizing, and so he hardly ever did so. This was curious. "For what?"

"My manner. Last night, and just this morning, before, during the Council. I was not myself," he reasoned. "Thoughts of what might happen with the Weapon plagued my mind – but I understand that it must be taken to Mordor."

Éohild tied his belt closed and looked up to him. Boromir was an earnest man. It was something her cousin and brother had always stressed, and she had experienced it herself during their journey together. She could never be upset with he who was like family to her.

"I do not much understand the power of the Ring," she replied, "except that it captivated us all at the Council. I even thought..." Éohild paused. It was probably best not to think of the Council when the memory was so fresh, lest the desire rise again. "Still, I wish you could have shared your burden with me, my friend. You know if it was ideal, I would support you in your venture to take it to Gondor. My Uncle…could not wield such a thing now."

"Forgive me," Boromir murmured. "I understand that you have your own worries, and I've thought only of mine."

Éohild grinned, trying to lighten the mood. Although nothing worried her more than the fate of the Mark, she remained confident in the abilities of Éomer and Théodred. If Wormtongue was only removed from the position in which he had overstayed his welcome, things might be better. "No matter," she said, patting Boromir's chest. "There. You look ready."

Boromir easily returned her warmth and looked to the door. "Yes?" he asked, quirking a brow. To those who did not know him it might have looked intimidating. "Merry, wasn't it?"

Merry watched them with what appeared to be suspicion. Éohild stepped back, in case his thoughts had wandered to Pippin's silly questions earlier. But the Hobbit said pleasantly, "Gandalf is calling us already, Boromir." He added as an afterthought, "You too, Éohild."

"Mustn't keep the wizard waiting," said the Gondorian, heading for the door.

"Why?" asked Merry, falling into step between the two of them.

"I know not; perhaps it is that my brother would not," was Boromir's answer, so Merry shrugged and proceeded to relate to them Gandalf's stopovers in the Shire. He was a frequent visitor there, and entertained always the children, though in Bilbo's last birthday party – Bilbo was the old Hobbit she had seen before, if the way she interpreted his description was correct – he and Pippin ended up washing the dishes at his behest. Merry added later that it was only punishment for setting off a great and beautiful burst of fireworks, but overall he painted a better picture of Gandalf than Éohild expected. Soon they arrived at the Hall of Fire, where a flame burned perpetually.

Unfortunately, it was currently empty, save for the Fellowship: Gandalf, talking with Aragorn over a map at the head of the table covered in some books; Legolas tracing the arch of his bow; Gimli peacefully smoking a pipe; Frodo and Sam quietly discussing something; and Pippin, unsurprisingly, asleep on the table. Suddenly it felt less like a fellowship than a band of random strangers thrown together for an impossible task, but Éohild fought to keep her faith in them.

Gandalf acknowledged their arrival by commencing the meeting. He discussed the particulars of their coming journey such as taking shifts when it came to resting, the formation they would take in case battle came upon them, even though he knew such a thing would fall apart once the fighting began.

There was also the matter of Bill – Gandalf expressed doubts about bringing him, but Sam was resolute and even insisted that Bill would follow them whether or not he was allowed to come along. A silly suggestion, but Gandalf only exhaled and said _very well_.

When they were finished, the Wizard looked at them expectantly, as if waiting for them to ask protest or ask a question. Pippin leaned over to Éohild, who moved closer upon his prodding. Yawning silently, the Hobbit whispered, "What…?"

Éohild grinned until they noticed Gandalf grumbling in exasperation, then they pretended to be very interested in the books Aragorn had been perusing earlier. Luckily, the Wizard's attention had shifted to an anxious Frodo.

"When are we leaving, Gandalf?" asked the Ring-bearer.

"Before dark, later this day," answered Aragorn. "We should leave under the cover of night, and travel then as much as we are able."

"The Orcs will spot us faster in the night, won't they? Better than we are able to spot them, at least." asked Éohild.

"The Enemy's spies on foot and wing will soon be abroad. Of the sky above we, too, must beware," said Gandalf. "Aragorn is not mistaken."

Éohild suddenly understood that the Orcs could capture them in the night as well, but couldn't help the shake of her head. As if he read her mind, Boromir spoke. "I believe it matters little now."

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow, which could only mean, _elaborate_. Éohild felt indignant at the action but remembered that he was kindly. When he asked, "In what manner?" she felt compelled to answer. It was like he could do something about it though she knew he could not.

"On our way to Rivendell, we were attacked by Orcs in the sunlight," she explained. Gandalf, Legolas and Aragorn shared grim glances, while the Hobbits looked confused. Gimli frowned.

"Surely they were slowed down. In some manner of pain," said Gandalf.

"Not at all," said Boromir. "They engaged us in battle at the Gwathló before we crossed into Tharbad. It had only rained and the ford was cloudy with fog, but they operated well enough. It was as though they had been taught to move about in the sunlight."

Aragorn frowned. "Whence did they come?"

"We cannot be certain," Éohild answered. All eyes were on them, now, but she had not yet grown accustomed to the attention of their future companions. She was especially conscious of the Elf's gaze. "But they had been trailing us since we crossed Isen."

"What does that mean for us, Gandalf?" asked Merry.

Gandalf took a deep breath, and in the lull, Legolas asked, "Did you defeat them in battle?"

"All of them," Boromir replied, when Éohild paused to review her answer. "They seem to have been tasked to follow us."

A pause in the room, worries exchanged, and then, "We leave tomorrow, at dawn," Gandalf muttered. "If it makes no difference. And it will be a time before we leave the forest. Is there anything else?" Éohild shook her head. "Then let us meet again tomorrow."

Dismissed, Legolas and Aragorn left the hall, talking like old friends. Éohild wondered how long they had known each other and would not doubt if it was a long time, since Aragorn appeared to be very comfortable with Elves. The Hobbits scurried out, too, worried about Orcs, and Boromir went to pack. Gandalf had slipped away without a word, leaving her with Gimli, who was smoking a pipe.

Éohild watched him for a bit before she thought of saying, "Hello."

His eyes shifted to her before his head did, as though wary, and then he blinked, speaking with the accent she worked hard to decipher. "You don't happen to be the lass I gave a little shove…are you?"

Éohild wondered if her face was so forgettable. She believed she had been the _only _lass in the Council, and that tackled was more the word than _a little shove_. Still she answered, "Yes, that was me."

"Oh. Well," he blew a cloud of smoke in the air, "my apologies, lass."

"Apology accepted," she said, sitting back in her chair. "It was a confusing moment. You might have been aiming for someone else."

"No," he shook his head. "Fairly sure I was headed for you when I saw you ambling toward that Evil Thing."

"Oh." She reiterated, "It was a confusing moment. I didn't—I don't want it." When he sent her suspicious, squinted eyes in reply, she raised a hand as if under oath. "I would never act against the Council's decision. And we were all drawn in, I think, but our heads are clearer now." It was something of a bluff, but Éohild hoped he believed it.

She couldn't tell if the Dwarf was smiling at her from behind his beard, especially since he was smoking, but he put down the pipe after another whiff. Then, regarding her quietly, he finally asked, "What are you doing here, lass? Are you sure you want to get involved?"

"Why do you ask?" Éohild returned, relieved of the change in subject. "Do Dwarf women not fight?"

Gimli may have smirked. "Have you ever seen a Dwarf woman?" Éohild shook her head—she had never seen _any_ Dwarf until then—and he gave an expression that made her think it was a gesture frequently given in answer. "That is because when Dwarf women go on a journey, they are so like the Dwarf men that nobody can tell them apart!"

Éohild looked contemplative. "I was told I was grizzly enough for a man, when Boromir and I first arrived."

Gimli scoffed. "Then if I should give you some advice, lass, it's not to trust the eyes of an Elf." He sat back. "But I don't see it happening with _Men_. Your face is too clean-shaven."

Éohild rubbed her chin. "My cousin dons no beard."

"Oh?" Gimli grinned underneath the hair. "Is he as pretty as our Elf companion, then?"

Éohild scowled almost immediately. "Even _I_ am not as pretty as our Elf companion…"

Gimli howled with laughter and almost choked on his pipe. Éohild thought to cross the table and help him amidst her own chuckling just as he managed to cough it out. "Don't fret, lass. It's not like you're going to marry him!"

Éohild coughed now, too. She tapped at her throat in embarrassment and made a face upon answering. "Perish the thought, Master Gimli."

"Lass," said the Dwarf, "If we're going to be traveling together, we might as well be friends. Gimli."

"Éohild. But what of our Elf companion? He will be traveling with us too," she reminded him.

"_Bah_," Gimli grumbled, smoking again. "I'll have someone toss me before I become friends with that Elf!"

Many of Gimli's comments begot Éohild's laughter as she spent some minutes with him, but the Dwarf seemed content simply smoking by himself. They parted soon enough. Éohild opted to tour as much of Rivendell as she still could before they set out, again, though it felt like it had already been a month since she and Boromir arrived. It was how she had spent the previous day. Looking through empty rooms and gardens and following the river around the haven, she saw Bilbo and Gandalf stepping out from the former's room.

Bilbo had asked Gandalf if he should be the one to take the Ring to Mordor, it being his fault for bringing it back to the light of the world to begin with, but the Wizard refused. It wasn't Bilbo's burden, he said, not anymore. Éohild did not join their conversation, and only smiled politely as they passed. Bilbo was kindly enough to return the pleasantries of a stranger, and Éohild wondered again, walking away, how a Hobbit could have gained possession of such a powerful weapon. Their small but hardy-footed race continued to surprise her.

Soon, though she believed there were multitudes of halls and gardens still left to see in Imladris, Éohild stuck by the waterfalls again. This time, she did not stay there until sunset, as she and Boromir were summoned to dinner by the Hobbits – meaning Pippin – where she was introduced to Bilbo. What would Éomer say if she told him that? Would he believe her? All this talk of 'magic' and the joining together of the races was something so detached from the worries of the Riddermark that it was like a different world, something out of tales lost even to time.

Éohild got up early the next morning, still quite disoriented, though she hadn't exactly slept well in light of their impending journey. When she was dressed, blades sheathed and clothes prepared, she made for the small clearing before the bridge, seeing Aragorn and Elrond in heavy conversation as she did. The rest of the Fellowship was already present with their friends. Gimli said goodbye to his father while Legolas bade his companions farewell. The Hobbits were gathered round Bilbo, who seemed especially sorrowful at their departure.

"Don't look as though you go to your doom."

Éohild turned at Vinariel's arrival. "No…" she said, feigning a smile, though after deeper retrospection she realized that was exactly what they were doing, drawing close to the Enemy himself, though she tried not to dwell. It would only affect her performance in battle. "I am only loath to leave Rivendell so soon."

"Then return, when it is all over," said Vinariel. "You will always be welcome here."

"Perhaps. But will you still be here?" asked Éohild. Sam had mentioned during dinner how he and Frodo saw Elves traveling to the West.

Vinariel's gaze was on Arwen, who watched them all from the stairs. Her attention was strongest on Aragorn and her father. "We must hope."

Vinariel smiled kindly, clasping Éohild's hands in her own. It was the most motherly affection she had received in what felt like ages, though she did not know Vinariel well enough for that to happen. Perhaps it was that she missed Éowyn, Théodred, and Leófe of the Mark, and knew she would feel the same about the Elf soon enough despite the short time she knew her.

"Safe journeys, my friend," she said, and they spoke for only a little while longer before Elrond arrived and they were ready to set out. It was all a blur, though she remembered something about an oath later – and held fast to Vinariel's words. _We will meet again_. For it meant that she would see the Mark, too, when they finished it all.

"Hold to your purpose," said Elrond. "May the blessings of Elves and Men and all free folk go with you."

At that, the Fellowship stepped out of Rivendell and turned left.


	5. Chapter 4

Everyone! We apologize for being two days late. Don't blame Senna; she was typing it up on the plane ride going home. Admittedly, it was Elis who was too lazy to open her laptop and edit this chapter. And she didn't even do that great a job. If some of it looks lazily done, it's her fault. Apologies.

We'd love to thank again those who added the story to their Favorites and Follows! The support is very encouraging. Now to thank the story's kind reviewers!

**LadyMorph18**, we couldn't resist not mentioning the tossing!

**UrieNanashi**, we're so happy you consider it one of the not-terrible fics so far! It's a great compliment. We're always toeing the line here with a Legomance, we know.

**BloodyPhantom**, thank you! They've got a long way to go!

**Ortholeine**, we're sorry for not making it any faster! But thank you tons for the love!

**Ren**, thanks for believing in us! We hope we can transition it well enough!**  
**

Yes, we do like ending our sentences in exclamation points. Actually, that's more of Elis' thing instead of Senna's. Senna's that annoying type who's always calm for some reason. (Just kidding, Elis totally loves Senna. And other people like that. She offsets Elis' crazy.) Elis is the lovable crazy kind who doesn't sit still. (Right. Lovable. _Snrrk_ -Senna)

Today we go from Rivendell to Hollin and onward! The Company gets to know each other or chooses to stay aloof (coughpairingcough), for reasons yet unknown to those unfamiliar with lots of romance stories. Forgive the lack of Éohild/Legolas in this chapter; not much of it in the Fellowship. Be excited for Two Towers, that's where the action is! (So many people we know hate FotR for this reason. The "lack of action," we mean. BAH. We love the Shire bits, so we're not complaining!)

Apologies in advance for the rocky pacing, and including some film scenes you may or may not believe was necessary to be included. Elis and Senna actually fought about the Caradhras conversations especially, but Senna really wanted it in there despite Elis' protests so it's there. Disclaimer on Elis' part. Ha ha!

Two weeks again until the next update! Possibly more, and by more we mean a month. Maybe not, though. Very sorry, we're busy these days with both school and part-time work, so please be patient with us!

The quote of Gandalf on despair you'll see below is something he actually said in the book ("The Shadow of the Past" chapter). Since Peter Jackson likes taking random lines and placing them where he feels is appropriate, please let us get away with it, too. Meanwhile, what Sam said about wishing for rope is also taken directly from the book, except he said that when they first arrived in or set out from Rivendell, we thinks.

At any rate, enjoy! Tell us what you think and feel free to click those pretty buttons down there!

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**The Province of Men **

**Chapter 4**

Imladris was out of sight, but Éohild would never forget the sound of the waterfalls.

The Company kept hushed as they set out, Gandalf and Aragorn leading them, but soon Pippin and Merry were unable to keep themselves from talking. One would think they would be more solemn, but the cousins discussed anything that came to mind and Gimli remarked whenever he felt it appropriate. They hiked east of the Misty Mountains for days, where the wind managed to slither into the cloaks Elrond had provided them no matter how thick and well-made.

Gandalf risked no bonfires. They were always huddled together, taking turns on who would stay at the very edge opposite Bill the Pony every time they got the chance to sleep under tangled thorn-bushes they could find and little holes in the ground, and after the first week and a half Pippin had grown tired. He did not complain, except when he was hungry, but it was easy to tell by his less talkative demeanor. Merry and the other Hobbits, too, sometimes staggered.

One midday, though it felt like nearing dusk for the dim sky, the Company was asleep. Éohild had been, too, until a terrible nightmare lurked at the edge of her consciousness and leapt straight into her dreams.

Théodred was dying, his clean-shaven face wan and golden hair collecting blood and dirt on the rocks of the Fords of Isen. He was sprawled amidst men of their éored and large Orcs, all slain. She stood over his body, hovering, but she could not move even as the rain battered her helpless comrades. It was difficult to even speak, let alone scream, so Éohild had resigned herself to tears and was so overcome by emotion that she woke, sobbing quietly.

The darkness of the hollow they had found this time greeted her, but even it could not measure against the kind that had swallowed her whole at the thought of her cousin's passing. Éohild did not allow the last of her tears to slip by before reminding herself it was only a dream and that she should silence herself, lest she wake her traveling companions and remind them that she was a woman. She had huddled closely to Sam when the vision wracked her rest and was glad he remained asleep. For how long, she wondered, but was distracted by the figure in the gray cloak sitting at the edge of their hiding place.

Was it possible that Gandalf could see, predeterminately, the outcome of their expedition? Or of anything? Éohild wanted to ask him about Théodred, only she was afraid to speak with him. But then he seemed friendly, despite being grouchy at times, snappish even when she absentmindedly joined in the little racket caused by Merry, Pippin and Gimli, when the Dwarf commented on things and exacerbated the Hobbits' attempts at spreading mirth. Crawling out of her spot, she ducked out of the hollow and crouched beside him.

"Gandalf, will we pass the Mark in our journey?" Éohild only noticed that her voice was uncharacteristically quiet when she heard the Wizard's reply.

"It may have been ideal." He stared ahead into the boundless forest spread out over the rising slopes. "But Saruman dwells too closely in Isengard."

So the White Wizard truly lived at Orthanc; Éohild was amazed. To think they had lived so close to him. He had always been an ally, of course, at least according to their elders, but she had doubted. "Then he is not your ally?"

Again, Gandalf sighed. They had traveled for at least ten days now climbing the mountains southward, and he was often strong-willed and quite tough considering what appeared to be his age. So his sighs, when he released them, were always heavy and laden with true fatigue. "The tale of Saruman's betrayal is long, and I regret the lack of prescience of the White Council. I suspect he sent the Uruk-hai to trail you across Isen."

"What is an Uruk-hai?"

"Ah," the Wizard appeared to realize that she had never before heard of them due to her hundred-day journey. "Abominations of Saruman. He molded them out of the ashes of Isengard—larger, scarcely less unsightly than your typical Orc, intelligent, and all the more fearsome."

He shook his head ruefully, but Éohild waited patiently. It was odd to see such a powerful wizard doubt himself, and she wanted to know how this had come about. And what the White Council was. Sensing this, Gandalf finally looked at her. "Are you so intent on hearing of the failings of an old man, Éohild of Rohan?"

It was the first time he had ever spoken her name. She felt like a simple maiden in the face of the men of the Fellowship. The Hobbits were admirable, of course, because of their size yet great courage and determination. Boromir and Aragorn were lords, and even Gimli, Vinariel told her, possessed blood of the royal line of his people. She needn't mention Legolas. Of course, she was a king's niece, but her companions had seen things she only dreamt of. Being a Rider of the Mark was suddenly a small feat compared to their stories.

"Not failings. Faith, perhaps, in a friend who…" Éohild paused. "Although I would not presume the kinship you felt with Saruman. Gandalf, I must hear what you know of him. If he indeed commands Orcs, then the Riddermark is in greater peril than I first thought. I have only just woken from a nightmare, one in which my cousin Théodred suffered a terrible death. I know it is borne of my own despair, for this journey, for my kingdom…"

"You take little stock in dreams," interrupted Gandalf, narrowing his eyes at her, "but there is much shown to us in repose that we do not see in the waking day. Despair? Do not despair, Éohild. For despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. And we do not."

The silence between them seemed to stretch on for years as shame overcame Éohild. When she dared at last look upon him, a twinkle in his bright eyes comforted her even in his serious admonishment, and she nodded. "We do not." When he smiled, she carefully continued. "…Can you tell me what happened, Gandalf?"

The Wizard had certainly told the truth – that it was a long story, because he was only able to tell her that he was sent to Middle-Earth long ago from a beautiful West now unreachable to her kind when Pippin stretched his arms between them, sitting on the rock beside Éohild.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and smoothing out the creases in his clothing. "Gandalf? Éohild?"

Gandalf squinted his eyes at the Hobbit before smiling slightly and rising, leaning on his staff. "Time to rise, Peregrin Took!"

"Oh." Pippin was happy whenever Gandalf was pleasant. Whirling, he tiptoed back to the Company in a rush. "Merry!" he whispered furiously, "Get up! Time to eat!"

Gandalf only sighed.

* * *

Éohild stayed up during Gandalf's watch each day after that, and while he did not express joy and even questioned her decision to _disturb_ his peace, the little of which he could gain while the Fellowship was asleep, the Wizard never turned her away.

He laid out the fabric of history before her and she studied it ardently, picking at its threads and listening even in her fatigue, though Gandalf always seemed to know when her eyes were about to close and sent her back to bed. His stories of the one true Creator and His Song were almost familiar to her, as though his stories were only a reminder of a burden once lost and then found, but she never expressed the peculiar feeling.

Éohild learned what had occurred with Saruman at Orthanc, and grew ever more worried about Théodred. Their éored was based at the Hornburg, after all, and if Saruman attempted a war, her cousin and his men – a number that should have counted her – would be the first line of defense. She could only pray for their safety. The éored's and the Company's.

Two weeks passed since their departure for Rivendell when the Company arrived at a low-lying area of the mountain spine. Gandalf finally allowed Aragorn to light a fire as the cold wind barraging them before had turned in a different direction, and the air seemed much fresher than since their journey began. The sun actually shone, for once, and great trees with dark spiny leaves were laid out before them, red berries flowering out from the branches. Hollin, Gandalf called the place. It was once home to a group of Elves, but they were long gone.

They rested as soon as they reached Hollin, and while Éohild never felt completely safe, she was secure enough to lean next to a tree at the edge of camp, using a wrinkled burl as a headrest as she sharpened her sword. Uncomfortable, but it was the closest thing to a pillow without having to stretch out her bedroll she had seen and Éohild would take it.

She was watching Pippin talk with Frodo under the next tree over, the two looking thick as thieves when Gimli ambled along, calling them to lunch. Éohild returned to their little campfire, where Sam uncharacteristically grumbled to himself.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Rope," answered Sam. "No rope! And only before we left I said to myself, _Sam, what about a bit of rope? You'll want it, if you haven't got it._ Well, a fortnight's passed and I want it; I can't get it now."

Plopping down next to the Hobbit, Éohild let out a laugh. It wasn't like Sam at all to complain about such things. "Whatever would you do with a rope, Sam?"

"All kinds of things," said Sam, and Éohild could hear the _of course_ even in his polite tone. "Climbing things, staying together in case there's some awful thick fog…you'll understand, Miss Éohild, when the time comes."

"All right, then," Éohild acceded, accepting a part of their meal and sniffing at it. Food those days all tasted the same, of course, no matter if Sam brought out his pot and tried to make 'soup.' "What's for lunch?"

Sam looked over at the thing that had roasted in his skillet. "Well, Legolas caught us a deer during his watch. Boromir was kind enough to skin it."

Éohild chewed on the meat slowly before nodding at the Elf on the other side of their cook. She had pointedly tried not to notice him, but it was futile. "Thank you."

Legolas smiled. "Think nothing of it," he said. They had not spoken since Rivendell, no matter if Éohild told herself the time would come and it was unavoidable, if they were to operate properly as a Company in this journey. He was kindly enough, she supposed, just never to her, for their eyes rarely met. And if they did, Éohild could not hold his gaze for long.

Aragorn was amiable, but he seemed worried by their path and was always watching out for danger, so Éohild rarely approached him. It was good to note, however, that Boromir was hardly hostile to his presence anymore. Whenever she trudged next to Gimli instead of him, the Captain would fall into step with Aragorn.

"When we're finished, Miss Éohild," said Sam, turning his knees to her, "I'd like to take you up on your offer."

Éohild's features brightened at his words. "I will instruct you on how to wield your barrow-blade? I am glad you accept, Sam."

A seat away from them for Boromir's presence, Merry stood up and called out, "I'd like to learn, too, Éohild."

"I have never instructed more than one person in battle, much less anyone, really," said the Rider, unable to hide that she was flattered, "but it would honor me to teach you both."

"I can help you," chuckled Boromir, leaning backward for Merry's benefit.

Éohild seemed just as amused, eyeing his longsword. "You, Boromir? I am to teach the Hobbits how to use weapons _their_ size. Your style is much too cumbrous."

Boromir grinned, eager to challenge. "I was once a boy with short, stubby arms, my friend." He paused, looking around at the Hobbits. "I mean nothing ill by it."

"Can I learn too, Boromir?" Pippin spouted from beside Merry, leaning over him. "After what happened at Weathertop…"

"Very well, then," Boromir agreed easily, clapping his hands.

Finishing his meal, Legolas said pleasantly, "I can teach you as well, Sam."

"What?" Éohild's head jerked to her left. "No. Sam is mine."

The Elf blinked. "…I can take Merry, then. I, too, am well-versed in short swords. Long knives, if you will."

"No," Éohild stammered, eyes wide. "It isn't that I don't want to teach Merry, either—"

Boromir laughed off the growing confusion around the fire. "My dear Hobbits, forgive Éohild. She is easily attached, and it is quite clear she cares for you already. Which is why, Legolas, she is reluctant to share with you."

Éohild turned as red as the holly berries Pippin tried to eat in the area – with disastrous results – at what appeared to be Legolas displaying his comprehension with an innocent nod and a quiet _I see_. Only Merry was turning pink with her. "It's all right," she said stiffly, glaring at Boromir from the corner of her eye. "It's all right. I will take Pippin."

"I…sort of wanted Boromir to teach me?" Pippin sheepishly scratched his cheek. "No offense, Éohild."

"Ah. No matter," Éohild mumbled. Had Boromir not been known as one of the greatest warriors of their Age, she would have dismissed her self-esteem as mythological in existence. "How about you, Merry?"

"All right," said the Hobbit, grinning widely.

"Then you are under my tutelage, Sam," Legolas clapped his hands together, granting him a proud smile.

Sam beamed. "I must be such a fortunate fellow – learning Elvish technique from a prince! Not…that learning the Gondorian or the—"

"There is no need to mend our pride, Sam," Boromir chuckled.

"If you _really _want to survive, I will teach you!" Gimli announced, nudging Frodo, who was the only thing keeping him and Legolas from attempting to battle it out in some manner or another. "What about you, lad?"

Frodo only smiled, soft eyes crinkling in amusement. "I'm afraid I couldn't carry an axe, Gimli."

Gimli frowned, recalling the fact only then. He shook his head regretfully. "That's too bad."

Legolas shot him a smug expression, prompting the Dwarf to scowl, but Gandalf and Aragorn appeared only gladdened by the exchange. It must have been the first time they had all partaken of a lengthy discussion, petty or not. "Do not weary yourselves too early in the journey," said the latter, genuinely enjoying his meal not for the taste but for good company. "We still have a ways to go."

They carried on. Gandalf shared with her how the One Ring came to be, and Éohild realized that Elves were nearly as flawed as Men. Beautiful they were, and much less crass, to be certain, but they were not perfect beings with no weaknesses. In that period of time it was easy to find fault in them, and Éohild thought herself rather foolish for having felt so inferior before their kind.

She knew she would feel differently if faced with them again, since they were glorious and truly knowledgeable, but for the moment it was only Legolas, whose every graceful move she wished to criticize, if she could only find _something_ wrong. His only fault was that when she glanced at him – he returned it so easily.

No stiffening on his part, and, she presumed, no embarrassment that came in the form of cold sweat or the clenching of fingers that may have betrayed his nerves when they met eyes. Though she supposed that could have been _her_ fault. She looked for her reflection whenever they passed any body of water that fit her face, and she could never perfect the small braids Vinariel had once done for her hair.

At any rate, as their travels progressed over the mountain, Gimli and Aragorn joined in the instruction of the Hobbits, though Gimli often sat back with their wizard, smoking a pipe. Upon Aragorn's insistence, they constantly exchanged apprentices. Not one to deprive Merry of varied fighting styles, Éohild agreed and in turn learned from the others.

Boromir and Gimli were pleased to find that they both depended on force, sacrificing strokes for lethal strikes, while Legolas and Éohild chose speed and swiftness of foot. Aragorn's approach was a crafty median, and nobody asked Gandalf to fight, though he continued to tell of Middle-Earth's past. During breaks when they all agreed rest instead of train, the rest of the Company listened, too. To Gandalf's chagrin, Pippin was curious enough to ask him for an entire repeat. When murmurs of agreement rose, the Wizard sighed and acquiesced.

Sometimes, Éohild and Legolas commended each other's skill, which was as far as they went in terms of speaking with each other. However, Éohild found herself eavesdropping whenever she heard mention of him or caught the soft timbre of his voice. It was most unsettling, but she could never help it.

* * *

Sam leapt with all he could, sweeping his barrow-blade against Merry's and breaking the Hobbit's defenses.

"Do not panic, Merry," said Legolas, voice calm as ever as he watched the spar. "Just remember—"

Sam continued forward with his blows, and Merry put his mind to keeping as much distance between himself and his opponent's weapon. Gimli rushed Pippin, Frodo, and Aragorn out of the way as the larger Hobbit backed Merry into a tree. They had paused to rest at a surprisingly empty clearing and Merry had been rearing for a fight; Sam was prodded into taking up the challenge.

"Yes! That's it, Sam!" rooted Éohild, leaping to her feet and shaking her fists in the air. "Keep your eye out for the weak spots!"

"Keep your guard up," insisted Legolas.

Merry ducked forward, leaping out of the way of Sam's next swing and managed to kick behind Sam's knee. Groaning, Sam released his blade and fell. Merry whirled quickly enough to threaten the gardener's neck with the edge of his blade.

Both breathed heavily, and Aragorn pointed his pipe at Legolas as he declared, "Merry wins."

Legolas chuckled and applauded as the younger Hobbit cheered, dropping his blade and doing a short dance.

"Congratulations, Merry," Éohild said, bowing.

Merry grinned from ear to ear and shrugged, slightly pink. "It may have been because you trained me first," he said, then realized his mistake and glanced at Legolas. Pippin refrained from laughter. "Of course, the training I received from Legolas was also—"

"I understand," said the Elf, grinning, and nodded at Éohild. "I have watched Sam's development as well. Your spinning technique is most clever."

"Thank you," Éohild returned the pleasantry as she dragged Sam to stand. Was that what one said when an Elf complimented them? She had no idea. She hated the very thought of her even fretting over it. With a grin that made her cheeks shake, she added, "I learned it from my sister." Quickly, then, she turned her back on the Elf and clapped a hand over Sam's shoulder. "Very good! Your wrist work is much more refined. And you are getting lighter on your feet!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Éohild," sighed Sam, hanging his head. "I'm not cut out for this sort of thing."

"All swordsmen start with mistakes," Boromir called out to them. "You will improve, Sam."

"Yes, don't worry!" said Pippin, brandishing his own blade and swinging it about a few times before pointing it deftly at Merry. "I'll defeat this scoundrel in the next round for you."

The Hobbit in question looked indignantly shocked at Frodo's reaction. "Laughter? Frodo! Won't you defend your cousin's honor?"

"No," grinned the Ring-bearer, "I think I might leave this to Pippin. Sam deserves some retribution."

As the cousins continued to argue in jest, Gimli approached a dejected Sam. Éohild had stayed to comfort him but Boromir had called her over with a wave, and she excused herself momentarily. "Painful rump, lad? You'll get used to it. Eventually."

"I'm all right, Mr. Gimli," shrugged the gardener. "It's just—I'd have liked to know how to fight better. What if we're attacked on the road?"

Gimli allowed silence to pass, watching Sam's features grow more crestfallen before bursting out with, "Don't let it ruin your mood, laddie! Losses are _good_ for practice. Tells you where your weaknesses are."

Sam looked to Gimli, eyes gleaming with hope. "Have you ever lost during training, Mr. Gimli?"

Gimli shifted in his seat, looking at every member of the rest of their Company – especially the Elf – before leaning closer. He winked, "Not that I'll ever admit, no."

Sam couldn't help but smile – he was unsure if it was for the encouragement he had just received or for the expression their older companion had put on just then.

"You'll best young Merry one day, hmm? I can teach you a few things to defeat that Elvish technique. Which I think," he said, giving Sam an honest look, "was the problem. You started out with an approach that didn't quite match your height, lad," he muttered, _among others_. "If you'd started with, say, a _Dwarven_ technique, it may have been more comfortable."

Sam looked doubtful but also appeared to take it into consideration. "Well, Elves are a little tall…"

Gimli laughed, swinging a hand to thump Sam's back and causing the Hobbit to lurch forward. "It's settled! I'll tell the lass she can take Pippin from under my deft wing _just_ for the time being."

Sam blinked, but thought it rather futile to disagree.

Legolas had taken to arranging the next spar between the cousins while Éohild relaxed on a stub of rock next to Boromir, who turned with a sly expression that escaped her notice until he sighed. She glanced at him and frowned at his happiness. "What causes you such cheer?"

"How well I have come to know you," shrugged the man.

Before them, Aragorn and Gandalf quirked eyebrows at each other. Éohild appeared just as baffled. "And what does your sense of me tell you?"

"That you, my friend," he chuckled, "are a terrible sport."

Éohild frowned. "I am a good sport if there ever was one. I congratulated Merry and thanked Legolas for his…input."

"With a smile that perfectly denoted your bitterness."

"Oh, leave it," grumbled Éohild, clutching her stomach. "I feel ill. It's probably a mood."

Boromir would give it to her if she were not so easily riled. Éohild generally responded well to teasing and jibes – save for when it came to this training. She was intensely prideful when it came to the matches between the Hobbits. Victory elicited wild cheers – "for both Hobbits," she insisted, all of them having trained with each one – but she was always quiet after losses to their Elf companion. He was beginning to disapprove of her spending too much time with Gimli. "Shall we call it a convenient excuse, then?"

"If it will spare me your scrutiny, yes," she replied, muttering under her breath. Before and below their mound of rocks, Gandalf and Aragorn tried to ignore the conversation until Éohild called their Wizard. "Gandalf," she asked solemnly, "you are very wise. I act fairly, do I not?"

Aragorn continued to stare ahead, clasped hands resting on his stomach, and counted himself lucky to have his back turned, smirk hidden. Smoke huffed from Gandalf's lips intermittently as he coughed. "You see," he began, "Women are—known for—giving life. This is perceived by some as their task, but before they are able to perform such a virtuous task…"

Neither did Éohild notice Boromir appearing quite pleased as she stared intently at Gandalf, patiently waiting for his explanation. To the Wizard's relief, there was no need to continue when their Elf approached them.

"Pippin is intent on defeating Merry," said Legolas, a short laugh escaping him. "For Sam's honor."

"A praiseworthy goal," Aragorn remarked.

"What is it?" asked Éohild, eyes wide at Sam and Gimli from across the clearing in which they had chosen to rest. The Dwarf replied with a weak wave, as though uncertain, while Sam beamed at her. She shrugged at the others. "I think Gimli wishes to discuss something." Rising and brushing the bristles from her back, she bolted over to the other two.

Legolas watched her go and turned to the others, cocking his head curiously. "I did not hear the Dwarf call to her."

Aragorn merely shook his head, eyes trained to the distance. Gandalf gave a distinct roll of his eyes, while Boromir, considering himself a true friend, answered for them.

"He waved."

Appearing none the wiser, Legolas accepted. "I see."

* * *

During a recess at an outcropping of rocks, Éohild sat beside Frodo and managed to have him quietly chat about the Shire and the Sackville-Bagginses – who sounded a lot to her like some of the women at the Hornburg who disliked her simply for the perceived closeness with their men – especially Lobelia, a formidable woman, and her son Lotho.

The rest of the Shire came up in discussion, too, and when he no longer seemed comfortable discussing his home, whether it was for lack of trust in her or he missed it too much to go on, Frodo asked to hear a story about Rohan. To match the Hobbit love of smoking pipeweed, she started with the tale of when her éored first realized that she was allergic to the things and how she was so dismayed, she built a great tolerance for ale, instead, under Théodred's 'tutelage.' But Éohild discovered that he was especially receptive to stories about Éomer and Éowyn.

"You're very lucky to have such siblings, Éohild," he said, eyes glinting in amusement. "I cannot imagine what it might have been like if I had a brother or sister."

"There would certainly be more chaos around Bag End, for one. Or was that Brandy Hall?" Éohild grinned, recalling the ways Éowyn could find blame in everything Éomer did after he became a Rider and still somehow get away with it. "But you always have Pippin and Merry."

Frodo searched the encampment for them and saw to their right Pippin training under Boromir's instruction, currently in the form of a good, slow spar. Merry watched eagerly, moving his arms at times as though he were in the mock-fight himself, before leaving to find some food. "They have gotten quite good at it," said the Ring-bearer.

"And so would you, if you practiced more. You all have a natural talent for it," replied Éohild. It was true; Merry and Pippin seemed more inclined to fighting – which matched their more eager personalities – but Frodo and Sam could be just as skilled when put to the test. It would all be different when a real battle came around, but for now, the Hobbits getting the instincts for it was good enough. Not to mention she was curious about the Ring-bearer's blade, Sting. Sam had mentioned that it was supposed to detect Orcs. "Very good, Pippin!" she called out, clapping her hands.

"Indeed," Boromir agreed. Although he deflected the Hobbit's attacks with relative ease, he paid much more attention to the spar now than he had days before. "We would be proud to have you join the ranks in Minas Tirith."

"Not if I take him to the Mark, first!" countered Éohild.

"Well, we did promise to protect Frodo, and that's what we'll do!" Pippin said breathlessly, his cheeks flush as he beamed at their praise.

"What are we talking about?" asked Merry, sitting beside Éohild with a sausage. He had taken to her instantly after they began training and was no longer averse to her presence. She never did figure out why he turned pink around her before.

"Boromir and Éohild say that I'm ready to become a squire," Pippin said proudly.

"What?" Merry frowned, and spoke even when his left cheek was full of food. "Then, so am I! I am taller than you."

"You are not!" protested Pippin, pausing the fight with Boromir. The Man dropped his sword and crossed his arms to watch the two.

"Are too, Pip."

"Well, even if you _were_," said Pippin, "I am much more skilled."

"You are not oathsworn to protect me," Frodo interrupted.

A silence passed them. It was true, and the reminder made Éohild feel like a link was being severed between them, forcefully, until Pippin rolled his eyes. "Then we _should_ swear an oath!"

Surveying the mountains ahead behind Legolas and Gandalf, Aragorn had been slowly approaching them. "Are you certain?" he asked, crossing over to Merry. "You are not bound to this quest for a reason. You need never go further than you will."

"Maybe," said Merry, taking a swallow. "But Frodo needs protecting while he's here, doesn't he?"

Frodo sighed. Often the Company listened when he spoke; listened a little too closely, sometimes, like he was handicapped and needed constant attending to, but now being ignored was slightly frustrating. "Then we shall swear an oath," he insisted, standing up. "But—to protect those in the Fellowship. All of us."

"That sounds fair," Éohild nodded.

"What are you scheming about over there?" asked Gimli, trudging over to their side of the camp.

"We are going to swear an oath," announced Merry, standing on his seat, an uneven rock against the mountain face. He steadied himself against Aragorn and Éohild when he faltered. "Gather round, everyone!"

Gandalf lifted an eyebrow, but he and Legolas joined the circle the others had formed. Sam followed from where he was cooking.

"Raise your right hands," Pippin instructed. Éohild did so quite seriously until she saw Gandalf and Gimli with the same mien and tried not to find it both humorous and endearing. She was overjoyed to see that Boromir agreed, the slightest grin on his restrained lips. The word Fellowship took form in her mind as she eyed each man in their small circle, this time with more confidence than when they had first set out. She pocketed the memory for safekeeping.

"I," said Frodo, leading the pledge upon Gimli's insistence, "Frodo Baggins…"

—"Frodo Baggins," mimicked Pippin.

"Not _that_," Merry whacked his arm with his oath-hand.

"It was only a quip!"

Gandalf squinted his eyes at them and they quieted—

"swear to accomplish our quest to the best of my ability…and to…uphold the values of the Fellowship…"

—"What exactly are the values of the Fellowship?" Gimli whispered to Éohild. Legolas turned to her upon hearing the question, having wondered as well.

"I…do not know," she murmured back—

"values like…love and friendship…?" Frodo hesitated, but his statement was acceptable to everyone, so they repeated his words without falter, "and to protect every member of this Company with…my life." It seemed a lot to ask, especially of people who had only known each other for so long, but at the same time it seemed only right, if they were to continue. "And I do mean _every_ member." He looked pointedly at their Dwarf and Elf.

Legolas feigned innocence and looked away while Gimli huffed outwardly, but they both swore to it. Only Sam and Éohild included Bill in their promise.

"There," said Pippin. "Now we are oathsworn. Go along, now," he said to those who hadn't yet dispersed. "I am going to become a master Hobbit-swordsman, if I do say so myself."

"Only after me," Merry grinned. "I want to train today, too."

"Shouldn't be healthy, after eating," Sam noted before returning to his place at the frying pan.

Following him with Frodo, Éohild laughed. "Sam, are you certain you don't want more practice?"

"Oh, no thank you," said Sam, holding out some sausages for her. "You should eat, Éohild." It didn't go unnoticed that he was trying to change the subject, but she was only too glad that he had finally dropped the 'miss.' They had made it clear that she was only twenty-one years old, and though it likely figured differently in Hobbit years, she was still the youngest in the Company. It was difficult to believe with Pippin so childlike, Boromir had said himself, but the Hobbit was only seven years her senior and they got on fabulously.

Frodo grinned softly and motioned to his own rear, shaking his head. He meant to say that Sam's rump still hurt from the exercise Éohild had put him through days before, where he fell on his posterior when Merry, under Legolas' instruction, sparred with him. Éohild was still a bit sour about that – not for Sam's loss but because, since Legolas was Merry's most recent teacher, it seemed that his technique bested hers, and that hurt all the more because their styles were the most similar.

Éohild held back her amusement and nodded thankfully at Sam, eating as she watched the training between Boromir and the other two Hobbits. The three moved to sit closer and watch. Far behind them on a higher mound of rocks, Gimli complained to Gandalf, who'd been trying to smoke his pipe peacefully, while Legolas stood opposite them and stared off into the distance.

It sounded about right, and how most of their days had gone of late. Some Hobbits were training, some watching, and those who were not instructors were either sitting by Gandalf or brooding to the side. It was a fine dynamic, not one her éored ever had, but it worked well enough for their Company.

Still, Éohild was happy whenever Frodo showed his subtly humorous side despite his place as the Ring-bearer. He never stopped laughing with them, but she had noticed that his mirth was much less prominent now than a time ago. He appeared more often to spend moments in deep contemplation, looking far off into the sky or the earth as though he saw something they could not. She could never imagine keeping that Ring, and even Gandalf said he could never explain to her in sufficient words the full extent of its withering effect on whoever held it, but the Wizard maintained that it was a terrible burden. Éohild tried as much as possible never to look upon the Ring.

Sometimes she could still hear the dark whispers from the Council stirring inside her. Admittedly, the Rider had entertained, whenever she was awake and alone at her watch, thoughts of bringing it to the Mark to defeat Saruman – for what better weapon to defeat an enemy than one more powerful than him? – but she dashed them always before the others woke. Even in the waking day she sometimes pondered it, and in those days she did her best to stay away from Frodo. In moments when she thought she might possess a hold of friendship over him as Éowyn had over others who loved her, she remembered her Marshals.

Théodred and Éomer were men to take the high road. Once they learned of the Ring's evil origins, they could never to think to use it. Not Théodred. Perhaps, it whispered in turn, when all hope was lost, and hope _was_ diminishing – but it hadn't yet completely, she swore to herself, and fell to the rear with Boromir who would keep her in check. She had never expressed the desire to him, fearing the shame, but Éohild knew that if control slipped from her then he would rouse her from delusion the most swiftly.

The mock-battle turned quickly into Merry and Pippin teaming up against their teacher, the latter kicking him in the shin and the former tackling him to the ground. Frodo, Sam and Éohild nearly choked on their food in laughter as Aragorn pulled at their shoulders to halt them, only to have the two flip him over on his rear. _For the Shire! _they cried.

Sam wheezed in an attempt to recover and turned to his left. His eyebrows furrowed and he fell silent, attention following that of their Elf companion's. "What is that?"

"Nothing," Gimli muttered, eyes narrowing at the dark cloud stark against the light ahead of them. "It's just a wisp of cloud."

The rest of the Company had stopped to watch a small flurry of black breezing amidst the white. "It's moving fast," Boromir noted. "Against the wind."

Éohild left Frodo and Sam in favor of standing next to Gimli, and realized upon squinching her eyes that it was all too familiar. She remembered clearly their nipping at her shoulder and hair. Boromir called to her in alarm, and she knew at once.

"Crebain from Dunland!" cried Legolas. Éohild glanced at him in shock. He returned her surprised look, but it hardly registered.

"Hide! Hurry! Take cover!" Aragorn and Boromir yelled, heaving the Hobbits towards an outstretched boulder sitting right over the hill that might cloak them yet from the black birds. Éohild whirled, rushing to stomp out the last of their fire as Sam grabbed his skillet. She picked up her sword from beside it, ignoring the rush of movement, but regretted it when the flames of panic died out.

"Bill!" she cried, recalling their pony only then.

"He's down here!" shouted Sam, "Hide, Éohild!" The others had already crawled for cover—save for something that nearly tore off her arm, pulling her behind a separate rock beneath a thick underbrush.

"Thank you," she gasped, only to be hushed by Legolas with a squeeze of her shoulder. Her eyes widened – she had expected Boromir or Gandalf, Gimli or Aragorn, even – but she managed to nod. She kept her eyes on his nose to avoid looking at his eyes, which seemed to only entirely take her in now. At least, it was what Éohild thought, and she did not realize that he only removed his hand from her when the squawking menace had already flown by.

"Boromir," she breathed as soon as the Company crawled out of their hiding places. He nodded, taking an arm around her. "We're safe."

"Spies of Saruman," Gandalf hissed. "The passage South is being watched!"

"Gandalf," called Éohild, scratching her head. She no longer took notice when they all looked at her. "We may have forgotten to tell you…when Boromir and I traveled to Rivendell, a band of those crebain, too, caught us overhead. They flew low as if to hinder us, but turned back."

The Wizard turned on them, raising his voice slightly. "And you did not think to mention this earlier?" Boromir and Éohild exchanged guilty glances, but even the Captain of Gondor knew better than to talk back when he had been remiss, himself. "Then it is true that Saruman knew of you," scowled Gandalf, whose features turned grim. "We must take the Pass of Caradhras."

Snow capped Caradhras even before they reached the pass, where she trekked beside Gimli. He was telling her and Sam about the royal treatment in a Dwarven kingdom, asking Frodo if Bilbo had mentioned anything about his travels with his father, but the Hobbit didn't reply. He had fallen behind with Aragorn and Boromir, the three of them looking almost hostile, but only for a second. When Éohild lifted an eyebrow and Pippin asked whether or not there was something wrong, the Gondorian had answered that it was only the wind.

It hardly mattered once they reached the pass itself, called Redhorn Gate. Gandalf mentioned that terrible things had happened here before, Orc attacks and such on travelers. Yet nothing met them on the cliff skirting the mountain but a malevolent blizzard whose fury was untemperable. The snow stuck to Éohild's face and lips, not to mention her head was so dry that it felt as though speaking would crack it in, then shatter into fragments like glass. And even that would not soothe her crusted nose and ears, which could barely hear past the howling tempest.

Behind her, Boromir and Aragorn wrapped their arms around the Hobbits. They were knee-deep in snow, and she stuck close to Gandalf for better footing when she saw Legolas walking lightly on the ground beside her as though he were simply strolling by the stream outside Edoras.

"Elves," she muttered, and regretted it instantly as she hacked on a buffer of snow. Legolas stopped, shoulders squaring, and seemed to peer into the distance, right at the tip of a cliff jutting out of their path.

"Legolas!" she yelled, hand hooked on Gandalf's robe as she clawed at him. The only thing that gave her enough courage to take his arm was the squall that blocked her vision, shielding her eyes from the terrifying abyss below.

He turned back as she tugged, keeping his eyes squinted from the fleet, but the surprise in his posture was clear. Still, he turned to Gandalf. "There is a fell voice in the air!"

"It's Saruman!" cried Gandalf.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain!" Aragorn rasped, arms gripping more tightly around Sam and Frodo. "Gandalf, we must turn back!"

The Wizard shook his head and spread his arms out as he stepped forward, onto the ledge from which Éohild had only just pulled their Elf. He bellowed into the abyss, battling the forces of nature – or Saruman's enchantment, it seemed – and the tumult seemed to calm. Not for long, however, as something rumbled from above.

Rocks fell so precariously near Gandalf that the wind blew him an inch backward, and Éohild could watch him no more. With all the courage she could muster, she leapt forward and grabbed a handful of Gandalf's robes, right as Legolas took hold of him, and both yanked him towards them as an avalanche of snow finally toppled over the Company, burying them in a hill of freezing white.

Éohild gasped for air and reached for a block of warmth as something hauled her out of the pile. Struggling to her feet, she dragged Gandalf with her. She had to learn how to start calling that something _Legolas_, she realized, as it wasn't a block of anything but his chest, and the latter his arms. Pushing her face away from him in apology, Éohild steadied herself beside Gimli instead, and was too relieved for embarrassment at the sight of the others popping out of the snow.

"We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!" Boromir shouted.

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" argued Aragorn.

"If we cannot pass over the mountain," Gimli suggested, "let us go under it! Let us go through the Mines of Moria!"

They all turned to Gandalf, who was surprisingly quiet. Éohild looked over her companions and saw them, red cheeks and all, freezing and clasping at each other the way she, too, held their wizard. Even Legolas had the tip of his nose tinged with pink. "Hurry and choose!" she pleaded.

Gandalf closed his eyes. "Let the Ring-bearer decide."

"We cannot stay here! This will be the death of the Hobbits!" insisted Boromir, and it was no exaggeration. Pippin's eyes were squinted to the point of nearly squeezing shut, and if he only relaxed his posture, it would be the end.

"Frodo?"

The Ring-bearer shivered, but even then his blue eyes were clear. "We will go through the mines."

* * *

After what Éohild was certain were ages of trudging and rubbing her icicle-stiff arms in vain, they descended Caradhras. They were all silent, save for the chattering of their teeth, and Éohild would have screamed for joy and kissed the warm earth if her throat were not in such pain and her elbows too weak to even bend by themselves. She fell backward instead, glaring up at the sky as though it had caused all this. Pippin joined her, and Gimli only refused out of pride.

To reach the entrance to Moria, they followed a shallow stream that was supposed to fall into a deep lake, but they had yet to see the latter. Over hills of rocks and boulders they climbed, up and down, finding the safest way possible and keeping close to the mountain's steep incline, until it was a steady descent into a misty hollow under the mountain.

Éohild's usual place was before Boromir as they maneuvered the rocks, but at some point he had gone forward and past her to aid Merry and Pippin, who had grown on him so. (Frodo and Sam had taken to Aragorn instead.) Behind him was Legolas. Éohild felt her back burn and her shoulders stiffen, though she felt foolish having these involuntary things occur to her. He wasn't staring at her, after all, and had no reason to. So when he began walking beside her, it took minutes before she could open her mouth.

"Legolas," she enunciated.

He turned to her. "Yes, Éohild…?"

The way he asked it was calm, but clearly unaccustomed to her addressing him out of mock-battles and passing around food, for how seldom conversations existed between them. Still, her addressing him did not seem unwelcome, so Éohild continued.

"Thank you," she said. "For pulling me out of the snow. For a moment, I thought I'd be encased in it forever."

"Think nothing of it," he said, his lips thinning as he pursed them together and smiled, always just slightly at her. Éohild only noticed him ever truly _laughing_ with Aragorn, whom he had clearly known for a long time. She wondered if it could ever be like that between them. Or – or any of the Company, of course. Besides Gimli, and Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo. Between the two of them. Very well. "We swore an oath, did we not?"

"We did, indeed," Éohild answered dumbly. His reply felt mildly disappointing to her, but she refused to delve deep enough to understand why. She dreamt of saying more, all sorts of conversations running through her mind with pleasant results, but she could only draw blanks whenever she thought she was ready to speak, and it remained that way until the Company reached the doors of Durin.

"The Walls of Moria!" exclaimed Gimli, dreamily. If the word could ever be mentioned in the same breath as the Dwarf, it would have been that moment. Skirting the lake, the Company reached a wall of stone that stretched high into the mist above them. Éohild hardly thought it looked like much, and Gimli explained, happily knocking his axe against the mountain face, "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed."

"Yes, Gimli, their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten," Gandalf muttered.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" asked Legolas, smirking, and Éohild could not help but silently giggle at such a boyish display of antagonism. She hadn't even realized the thing was on her face until Gimli grumbled, and when she looked at him, he returned it with just as much confusion. Almost like she was _odd_. Éohild wondered why until she felt her cheeks straining from the smile, and then she dropped it to the point of a frown.

Gandalf attempted to open the doors – find them, too – with languages she could not understand, though he had taught her very little Elvish for the sake of his stories, and Éohild passed the time by staring into the water. It was darker than one would expect, almost vicious-looking. Eerie, and had Frodo not slipped a foot into the water she would have thought it viscous, like the tainted blood of a monster. Especially because the branches of the ailing trees reaching out over it hardly drew proper shapes on its surface.

Finally, a silver light from the wall led her away from the water. Mirroring the moonlight high beyond the mountain was the entrance to Moria, a shimmering archway whose curve was filled in with Elvish writing. Among its symbols were a hammer and an anvil which combined were the emblems of Durin, according to Gimli. Above them were seven stars, and below were two trees, each with a crescent moon. Between them, at the exact center, was a bright star.

Gandalf stepped back and nodded, pleased. "It reads, _the Doors of Durin – Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter._"

Merry passed Éohild to join the Wizard and asked, "What do you suppose that means?"

"Oh, it's quite simple," replied Gandalf, more accommodating than usual in light of the discovery. "If you are a friend, you speak the password, and the doors will open."

"So what is the password?" Éohild asked absentmindedly.

Gandalf gave a rumble from his throat in contemplation and spoke more of the foreign tongue, but as Pippin eloquently stated, standing idly before the doors, "Nothing's happening." The Wizard tried again, pushing. "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves, Men, and Orcs…"

Pippin stared at him curiously. "So, what are you going to do then?"

The Hobbit had barely finished his sentence before Gandalf snapped, "Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took! And if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words."

Pippin drew back, lips set in a thin line as he decided to 'keep quiet,' if that was possible for the Hobbit, but Éohild could not blame him. Gandalf had acted in the same manner to her before, when she spent his watches in wake with him and asked too many questions repetitively or to get the story going whenever they encountered a lull.

The Wizard made her feel as she did exactly like when she was a little girl, bubbling with questions and unable to contain them, for it was difficult to believe that there was anything he did not know. Pippin asked for impatience, yes, but he asked Gandalf because of his faith in him, as she did. She had felt that way once about her Uncle. The memory both warmed and clenched at her heart.

Still, Éohild retreated from the general area too close to the door in case another question like _what are you doing now_ or _have you gotten it yet, Gandalf_ slipped out naturally. As their Wizard kept up his efforts, she sat down on a nearby stump just in time to catch Aragorn patting the shoulder of a glum Sam. Éohild had barely noticed them in her quest to avoid the lake.

"Mines are no place for a pony. Do not worry, Sam. He knows the way—his courage rivals that of the steeds of Rohan," said Aragorn, looking at Éohild meaningfully all of a sudden. When she understood what he wanted, she nodded vigorously, almost too obviously. Fortunately, Sam was too caught up in his sorrow to notice.

"Oh, yes. Bill possesses the steel of my own friend – Fleetfoot," said the Rider, patting the pony. "Be safe, my dear."

"Bye-bye, Bill," Sam sighed, giving his mane a last brush. The brave horse nudged him devotedly before cantering into the night, over and beyond the mounds of earth they had climbed before.

Aragorn was a Dúnedain – the information had come up in one of the Company's conversations – but what Éohild was truly interested in was if he knew a cure for her Uncle. He was much older than the King, after all. Wiser to the ways of the world and its different properties. She might have asked Gandalf, but the Wizard was busy, and the idea had just come when she saw him comfort Sam with such eloquence. It was the water that made Théoden King spring to mind. It looked ill, she thought. Like him.

But Aragorn was busy telling Merry to stop throwing pebbles in the water, so she turned her attention to Gandalf. He had thrown his staff aside and removed his hat, just as when he told her stories of Middle-earth, and was speaking with Frodo. To Éohild's chagrin, their topic of conversation looked important, and the other members of the Fellowship had, whether they knew it or not, come closer to the water, the other Hobbits especially.

She did not want them near the lake. Éohild made to stand before Sam, staring into her vague reflection upon it. Her hair was still slightly braided from the last time they were able to bathe days ago, but it had come a little loose since she lay on the ground after Caradhras.

A little dirty, but still golden, and she wondered with an unfelt grimace if it was how she had looked when she spoke with Legolas earlier. Realizing the thought, she turned away from the lake too early when the doors pulled open of their own accord in response to something Frodo had uttered. Had she looked any longer, and less at her vanity than the lake itself, Éohild would have caught her reflection stirring.


End file.
